<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524</id><updated>2011-09-28T10:05:27.009-06:00</updated><category term='pakistan stories'/><category term='d&apos;oh moments'/><title type='text'>this one time...</title><subtitle type='html'>so, i tend to think and converse in stories, which is great except that sometimes people don't get it and sometimes the stories annoy them and also, i often don't remember exactly &lt;em&gt;why&lt;/em&gt; i started with the story, so then i just keep talking and hope that eventually i will remember where i was going with the story and why i started telling it and i get further and further from where i was intending to go with the story.                kind of like this.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>47</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-309023194048225263</id><published>2011-09-24T19:08:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2011-09-24T19:08:37.545-06:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='pakistan stories'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='d&apos;oh moments'/><title type='text'>...I locked my keys in the car</title><content type='html'>I’m very very very paranoid about locking my keys in the car. I’m always double checking to make sure I have my keys in my hand before leaving my car. I check them and double check to make sure I have them. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Except this one time. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It happened when I was working as a houseparent at a boarding school in Pakistan. I worked there from February 2000 to July 2002 (back in Canada between September 2001 and February 2002).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took a group of my high school girls to Islamabad for a music festival and competition one year. We were a small group (3 girls plus me) so I drove us in the car the school kept for staff use, a &lt;a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=suzuki+khyber&amp;hl=en&amp;client=safari&amp;rls=en&amp;biw=1410&amp;bih=802&amp;prmd=imvnsfd&amp;source=lnms&amp;tbm=isch&amp;ei=DHp-Tuz2Lqfo0QHx3MGZDA&amp;sa=X&amp;oi=mode_link&amp;ct=mode&amp;cd=2&amp;ved=0CBUQ_AUoATgy"target="_blank"&gt;Suzuki Khyber&lt;/a&gt;. I’m pretty sure it’s not used anywhere outside of Pakistan. It was 4 doors plus hatchback. I think the North American model was called the Swift. It was one sweet ride, let me tell you. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were staying at the home of friends in Islamabad. They ran a guest house and frequently hosted staff from our school for getaways and retreats, having been former staff members themselves. I loved visiting their house. It was beautiful and calm. It was always such a respite from my sometimes stressful job. I’m getting off track here now but I really did love that house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So anyway, I had the three girls with me and one night we went to Jinnah Market for supper. I parked and set the keys down for a minute to look for something. This is important for later in the story. Or, actually it’s important for right now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got out, locked the door and closed it. As it was clicking shut I realized the keys were on the seat and had that “Oh no!” moment. I frantically grabbed at the door handle, hoping I could catch it before it locked, even though I had heard the click. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I thought “The girls never remember to lock their doors! We’re okay!” So I asked the girls “Did any of you not remember to lock your doors?”  They proudly said that they had remembered! Isn’t that great? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I thought “Maybe the hatch wasn’t locked!” but no it was locked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So there we were in the parking lot of the restaurant, an hour and a half drive from the school (where the spare key was). I didn’t know my friends’ phone number to call them for help (I know, right?! Smart). I figured we could get a taxi back to their house, but we didn’t know the street name (Look, it was ISLAMABAD. No one knew the street names. We could have figured it out. Eventually. I knew how to get there after all). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, there we were in the parking lot, retrying all the doors, hoping maybe someone left a window open (nope) not sure what to do. Suddenly a car pulled up and one of the girls said “Hey! It’s my mom &amp; dad!” They had come to watch her perform the next day and got to Islamabad just that evening. They had come to Jinnah Market to get supper and ended up choosing the same restaurant we did. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We explained what happened and all had a laugh about it. Her dad tried all the doors again, checked the hatch and the windows. Nothing. He volunteered to go to a gas station to see if someone could help us get into the car. It was nice to have them there. If nothing else at least her parents would be able to help us get to our friends house. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So now it was me, the girls, one girl’s mom and a growing crowd of street kids. They were trying to sell us various things or offer to dance for us. One of the boys was selling roses and kept trying to get me to buy one. I was trying to decline and he was shoving them in my face so I finally told him they make me sneeze. He didn’t know what I meant so I pretended to sneeze. This was apparently the funniest thing these kids had ever seen. One of the street kids started singing and another offered to pray to Allah to open the doors for me (for a fee of course). Our little group was turning into quite a party in the parking lot. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just at that point, another vehicle pulled into the lot. By this point in the event none of us were terribly surprised to see the parents of one of the other girls. The more the merrier!  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We explained the situation, we all laughed, they tried the doors (it’s compulsive. you can’t not try the doors even when you know they’re locked). We were discussing just going for supper when the 2nd dad jokingly put his key into the lock on the door of our car. None of us expected it to fit the lock, it was a totally different make of car! We laughed because, of course, Pakistan. Then, to all of our amazement, he turned the key and the lock popped open!! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What are the odds? (I’m terrible at math so if you want to figure them out, have at it and please let me know). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’m even more paranoid about locking the keys in my car now, in case that wasn’t obvious. I have a remote lock key fob thing now so I’m not as worried about it, but I still do double check every time I get out. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and the girls did great at the music competition and we made it home in one piece. &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-309023194048225263?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/309023194048225263/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=309023194048225263&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/309023194048225263'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/309023194048225263'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-locked-my-keys-in-car.html' title='...I locked my keys in the car'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-1225639307861732946</id><published>2011-09-24T18:50:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2011-09-24T18:50:14.365-06:00</updated><title type='text'>...I remembered I had this blog</title><content type='html'>So, as you can see, I haven't posted anything here for a long time. I'm going to try to change that. I have some ideas for some stories to tell and I want to work on writing more frequently. So, we'll see how long I can keep this going. &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-1225639307861732946?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/1225639307861732946/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=1225639307861732946&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/1225639307861732946'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/1225639307861732946'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-remembered-i-had-this-blog.html' title='...I remembered I had this blog'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-3122157800728414212</id><published>2008-10-06T14:07:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-06T14:23:27.109-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Random(ish) Monday</title><content type='html'>&lt;em&gt;If you are one of those people who get into semantic battles about the haphazard use of the word "random" then &lt;s&gt;go elsewhere today&lt;/s&gt; &lt;s&gt;you can shut it&lt;/s&gt; I do apologize. I use the word simply to indicate a bunch of unrelated musings. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-I woke up Friday thinking it was Saturday. That was the best couple of minutes until I realized it was Friday and I had to go to work. Needless to say (but will be said anyway) my Friday sucked as a result. I was so cranky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-When I am cranky all pet peeves are magnified. For example:&lt;br /&gt;*If you tell me you have a "few" questions but then only ask 1 or 2, you may incur my wrath.&lt;br /&gt;*when driving, if you need to change lanes PLEASE for the love of all things Holy do not take 24 minutes to do so!!&lt;br /&gt;*When driving, if you decide you need to be in my lane and only start signalling when your vehicle is even with mine and there is no one behind me, I will not see any reason to slow up so you can get in front of me in my lane.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-I went home for lunch on Friday, figuring that I was so cranky it was best to be alone for a while.  I played Mario Kart (Wii!!) while at home and then promptly got back in my car to go back to work.  The brain, apparently, could use a few minutes to shift between the 2 driving styles.  Apparently.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-On Thursday, out of the blue, The Boy asked if I would like to go to the Symphony on Friday. The Calgary Philharmonic was presenting the Lord of the Rings Symphony with the CPO and Chorus. It was really good.&lt;br /&gt;-More awesome still? They encouraged patrons to dress up. In LOTR costume. For the Symphony.&lt;br /&gt;-More awesome yet? People did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5poEtmY3PnE/SOpy0cqQtCI/AAAAAAAAAEM/CdPIeDz5kuY/s1600-h/LOTR.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254138160653317154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5poEtmY3PnE/SOpy0cqQtCI/AAAAAAAAAEM/CdPIeDz5kuY/s320/LOTR.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-3122157800728414212?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/3122157800728414212/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=3122157800728414212&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3122157800728414212'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3122157800728414212'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2008/10/randomish-monday.html' title='Random(ish) Monday'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5poEtmY3PnE/SOpy0cqQtCI/AAAAAAAAAEM/CdPIeDz5kuY/s72-c/LOTR.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-4776216791982360455</id><published>2008-09-29T12:26:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-09-29T12:31:31.910-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Welcome to 7th Grade</title><content type='html'>I work at Junior High.  I don't mean I work &lt;em&gt;in&lt;/em&gt; a Junior High.  I mean my workplace, an office in a telecommunications field, with employees who are well past Junior High age, is basically a Junior High.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are many isolated instances to support this, but today's incident cemented the feeling of Junior High.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went into our (very small) lunch room to find that there was no space at the table.  Normally there are only a few people in there, but today it was packed.  There were chairs but not one person offered to move their chair so that I could fit a chair up to the table.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I mention that one of those employees has been giving me the patented 7th grade Freeze Out for the past few days?  No?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes.  It couldn't have been more Junior High if I had had braces and a bad perm.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sigh.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I'll start telling those stories.  That might be entertaining.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-4776216791982360455?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/4776216791982360455/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=4776216791982360455&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4776216791982360455'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4776216791982360455'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2008/09/welcome-to-7th-grade.html' title='Welcome to 7th Grade'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-5992554067507046384</id><published>2008-09-25T13:12:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-09-25T13:19:02.855-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Hello out there, we're on the air/It's Hockey Night tonight</title><content type='html'>I'm Canadian.  That much is obvious from my profile.  But there are times when that Canadian-ness becomes more apparent.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like last night when I caught a few minutes of the pre-season Flames/Coyotes game.  My brain switched to "Hockey's Back!!!" mode instantly.  It's like a dearly loved friend had come back from a trip.  It's that great time of year again.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boy just called and asked if I had plans for tomorrow night.  I said no, why?  He wanted me to guess and my first thought was "Flames Game" so I said "Are we going to the game???!!!"  He was somewhat disappointed that I guessed it so quickly (which I fully understand).  Either way, I'm gonna get to see some hockey tomorrow night.  Yay.  And I couldn't be more happy or happy to be Canadian either.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-5992554067507046384?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/5992554067507046384/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=5992554067507046384&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/5992554067507046384'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/5992554067507046384'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2008/09/hello-out-there-were-on-airits-hockey.html' title='Hello out there, we&apos;re on the air/It&apos;s Hockey Night tonight'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-3842193163314635303</id><published>2007-11-08T10:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-11-08T11:08:28.066-07:00</updated><title type='text'>workplace hazards</title><content type='html'>I wonder if it's possible to dislocate something in my eyes from all the eye-rolling that takes place at work while listening to co-workers complaining.  I wonder if irony unrecognized by my coworkers will eventually do me in.  I wonder if the not-so-subtle passive agressive behavior of coworkers will eventually be too much for me and i will end up as an evening news item "Woman goes on rampage with stapler."  I wonder if the tension in my back and neck will eventually work itself into such a state that i will curl up into a ball and never come out of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sigh.  Where's a sugar-daddy when you need one?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-3842193163314635303?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/3842193163314635303/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=3842193163314635303&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3842193163314635303'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3842193163314635303'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/11/i-wonder-if-its-possible-to-dislocate.html' title='workplace hazards'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-4910358859707538512</id><published>2007-10-25T13:14:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2007-10-25T13:18:37.094-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Standing Ovation</title><content type='html'>My new job is stressing me out.  The work load (way more than they mentioned in the interview), the learning curve, the hostile environment created by a caustic co-worker...  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just re-discovered something I had discovered last year around this time:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Songs from recordings of live performances on your iPod (or similar) give you a chance to pretend that you are being given a round of applause.  My new workspace is in a cubicle (which, after years of being at reception or similar, i LOVE!  privacy-ish!).  The next time a "live" song comes up on shuffle, I'm taking a bow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;**btw:  I realize it's been way way way too long since i've posted here.  I think I may end up starting up here again, due to the aforementioned stressful job and relative privacy at work...  shh...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-4910358859707538512?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/4910358859707538512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=4910358859707538512&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4910358859707538512'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4910358859707538512'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/10/standing-ovation.html' title='Standing Ovation'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-8487448862601882766</id><published>2007-05-09T15:33:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2007-05-09T15:55:57.527-06:00</updated><title type='text'>conversations</title><content type='html'>1.  Yesterday evening it was really warm (for May)(in Calgary)(it was about 25C at 7-ish pm) so I went for a walk down to the St*rb*cks just down the road to get a fr*pp*cino.  &lt;br /&gt;I ordered:  "Grande Decaf Fr*pp*cino".  &lt;br /&gt;The Overly Made Up and Hair-Done (OMUHD) girl at the cash register said back to me: "Grande Decaf Fr*pp*cino?" She then turned to the B*rista behind her and repeated:  "Grande Decaf Cappucino."  &lt;br /&gt;"Fr*pp*cino", I corrected.&lt;br /&gt;"Right, Cappucino." OMUHD asserted.  &lt;br /&gt;I corrected again:  "No, Fr*pp*cino."&lt;br /&gt;OMUHD looked confused and said (to me): "Fr*pp*cino?"  At my assurance that this was correct, she turned back to B*rista girl and said "Fr*pp*cino.  Right.  Grande Fr*pp*cino."&lt;br /&gt;I reminded OMUHD of the "Decaf" portion of the order.  She turned, once again to the B*rista girl and said "Grande Decaf Cappucino I mean Fr*pp*cino."&lt;br /&gt;That established, it was B*rista girl's turn to be confused.  &lt;br /&gt;"Decaf?" she asked.  "We don't have Decaf."&lt;br /&gt;There was then a brief discussion between B*rista and Overly Made Up and Hair-Done (OMUHD) girl about the availability of the Decaf (whatever it is they needed.  I missed that part).  OMUHD turned back to me and told me that they couldn't do a decaf Fr*pp*cino.  I asked her why not and got a long story about the missing (whatever it is).  OMUHD had the look of a trapped (overly made up and hair-done) deer as she tried to find a solution for me.  &lt;br /&gt;"We have Regular and Coffee Lite."&lt;br /&gt;"What is 'Coffee Lite'?" I asked, trying to figure out how that could be a substitute for decaf.&lt;br /&gt;"Well, um.  It's lighter.  Like it has less calories?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2.  This afternoon at work, a coworker stood behind me for 5 minutes not saying anything.  I finally realized she must be there to talk to me, so I asked her "Are you waiting for me?"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes," she said.  "I didn't want to bother you." &lt;br /&gt;So I assured her she wasn't bothering me and asked what I could do to help.  &lt;br /&gt;"Do you have any undone paperwork for the City?" she asked.&lt;br /&gt;"Like pending invoices?" I asked her.&lt;br /&gt;"No, invoices you haven't done yet." she corrected in the sort of tone one uses with small children.&lt;br /&gt;I told her I didn't have anything for her so she went to find out what was going on.  Later, she came back to me with some paperwork that needed to be invoiced.  &lt;br /&gt;I asked her, "Do you need me to enter that?" indicating the paperwork in her hand.&lt;br /&gt;"No," she replied.  "You just need to enter this," also indicating the paperwork in her hand.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-8487448862601882766?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/8487448862601882766/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=8487448862601882766&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/8487448862601882766'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/8487448862601882766'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/05/conversations.html' title='conversations'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-2824709803826853598</id><published>2007-04-16T11:07:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2007-04-16T19:10:05.821-06:00</updated><title type='text'>moment of silence</title><content type='html'>I was just about to post yesterday.  It was profound.  It was witty.  It was my finest work*...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have I ever mentioned how clumsy I am?  It will be on my yet-to-be-completed list of interesting (wierd) things about me.  I'm clumsy.  I consistently misjudge the height of car door frames, the distance between my body and a table, the length of my arms, the placement of items on the floor within toe-stubbing distance.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Amazingly (and this too should be on my yet-to-be-completed list) I've never broken a bone.  Considering how truly clumsy I am, this is a minor miracle.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, back to my post from yesterday that did not get posted:  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting at my desk at home, composing the previously mentioned amazing post, when I set a glass of water down.  I thought to myself "Be careful.  Those particular glasses are somewhat unstable and you wouldn't want something bad to happen."  (well, actually I thought to myself "hmm...  watch it" and then was distracted by something shiny).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You can see where this is going, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No sooner had I set the glass down than I bumped the desk and it went flying.  I grabbed my iBook and picked it up and unplugged it but it was too late.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was all I could do to not cry/scream/throw up.  I called a service place today and the prognosis, cost-wise, doesn't look good.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The worst part?  Aside from not having my computer, not being able to google whatever strange things pop up at any given moment.  Aside from not being able to email/MSN/lurk on various blogs.  Aside from the sick feeling of having potentially destroyed data/photos on my computer.  The worst part?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have no one to blame but myself.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ugh.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I'm posting from work.  I'm trying to figure out when/how I can take poor poor computer in for assessment/repair.  Not that it will make much noticeable difference in the regular appearance of posts here.  ehem.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wish me luck.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket...  and put foam on all sharp corners around me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;em&gt;okay, so it was probably just a nothing post but work with me here.  I'm grieving the loss of my computer.  and feeling stupid.  and poor.  and stupid.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7:08 pm (MST)&lt;br /&gt;Update:  IT. IS. A. MIRACLE!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent most of my day fighting back the sinking feeling that comes from knowing that I will have to spend a large sum of money to fix something that needs fixing because I messed up.  That's not a fun feeling.  Sort of ranks up there with the feeling of needing a rootcanal...  on ALL of your teeth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Talking to the repair technician earlier in the day made me feel worse, since he said that the WORST thing I could have done was try to turn the computer back on after the water incident (well, it was after the water had drained off and the computer was mostly dry).  All afternoon, I sort of had a running conversation with God, begging for my computer to work when I got home.  It didn't work when I tried it a bunch of times last night, nor did it this morning when I left for work, so I figured I had nothing to lose when I got home, put the battery back in and plugged it in.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, sign me up for a Mac commercial:  My computer "healed" itself.  I'm writing this update on my formerly soaked iBook.  Take THAT service tech with your scary proclamations of doom.  Take THAT know-it-alls who laughed at me.  Take THAT self for panicking and all the self-recrimination.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;whew.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now to set up the impenetrable moisture barriers around my desk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-2824709803826853598?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/2824709803826853598/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=2824709803826853598&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/2824709803826853598'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/2824709803826853598'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/04/moment-of-silence.html' title='moment of silence'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-5620096544881418913</id><published>2007-04-11T22:59:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2007-04-11T23:22:47.597-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Why?</title><content type='html'>*&lt;em&gt;still not doing too good at the posting regularly thing.  or at the grammar thing.  sorry.  for both.*&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I was faster with the camera function on my camera phone (phone camera?).  I often see "interesting" things around me but never seem to a) remember I have a camera phone/phone camera; b) get to it quickly enough; c) get it to open the camera function, focus, take a picture fast enough.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like today.  I was driving back to work after lunch and was stuck at a light behind a woman in a small car.  She had stuffed animals in the back window and something furry/stuffed hanging from the rearview mirror.  Now, I have something hanging from my rearview mirror (a pendant I bought in Pakistan just before I moved back to Canada), so I get having something decorating your car.  But I don't understand the stuffed animals in the back window.  Are they there so you can have something to play with if you ever get stranded?  Are they there to communicate with other drivers?  "I'm cute!"  or, alternately:  "I'm somewhat eerily unstable!  Don't tailgate!!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As confused as the stuffed animals left me, they were not the most confusing part.  This vehicle had Winnie the Pooh decals in the window.  And, the part that pushed me over the top from mindlessly following along on the city street to contemplating the wording of this story for the next 10 hours before I finally sat down here to write it; the part that confused me the most?  A Winnie the Pooh LICENSE PLATE HOLDER.  ??&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, I like children's cartoons as much as the next childless 36 year old woman, but, Come ON!  I see women with cartoon characters on otherwise fairly normal items of clothing, or decorating their workspaces and I can't help but wonder what the men around them think of this behavior.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It should be noted that I'm not referring to an ironic use of cartoons or characters, nor am i referring to any cartoons aimed more at adults (Simpsons, Family Guy etc).  It's the Winnie/Mickey/Tweety phenomenon.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Can anyone explain it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have I gone off on a rant?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, yes I have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you, dear reader, are a cartoon character wearer/decorator, please forgive me my insensitivity.  And explain it so I understand.  Cause I really don't understand it.  Really.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-5620096544881418913?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/5620096544881418913/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=5620096544881418913&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/5620096544881418913'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/5620096544881418913'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/04/why.html' title='Why?'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-349282650709377361</id><published>2007-03-28T15:48:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2007-03-28T16:08:41.315-06:00</updated><title type='text'>spambook</title><content type='html'>I don't use a phone book anymore.  Not the yellow pages, not the white pages.  Not the trying-to-compete-with-the-official-phone-book book.  If I need information or a phone number I find it online.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have at least 5 or 6 old phone books taking up valuable real estate in my apartment right now* and someone just dumped another trying-to-compete-with-the-official-phone-book book outside my apartment door when I said I didn't want one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's like tangible spam. Well, not &lt;a href="http://flint.cs.yale.edu/spam/spam.gif"target="_blank"&gt;Spam&lt;/a&gt;, it's like the email type.  But in book form.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At work this afternoon, a slightly twitchy delivery guy foisted a dozen trying-to-compete-with-the-official-phone-book books on us, even though we said we didn't need/want them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then, he said to me "And, I have something special for you."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I oh-so-subtly backed even further behind my desk as he reached into what appeared to be the back of his pants.  With a flourish he presented me with a CD in a cardboard mailer.  "The whole book on disk" he bragged as he walked out the door, ignoring the WTF expression on my face.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I looked at the disk.  It reads:  "search online at ____.ca".  Well, if i can search your directory ON LINE on my COMPUTER why would I need a CD version of it?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to spend the rest of my afternoon coming up with a craft to do with the CD.  I want to stick it in the microwave to make it crackle and split, but that may raise more eyebrows in the office than I'm comfortable with.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*I &lt;em&gt;plan&lt;/em&gt; to take the old phone books to the recycling place, but i just keep forgetting**&lt;br /&gt;**yes, for 4 years now i keep forgetting.  This should tell you something about me and procrastinating.  &lt;br /&gt;***sorry it's been 2 months.  I have written several dozen hilarious posts in my head and just never get them OUT here.  I'll be back soon.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-349282650709377361?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/349282650709377361/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=349282650709377361&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/349282650709377361'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/349282650709377361'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/03/spambook.html' title='spambook'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-3719101495391994180</id><published>2007-02-02T07:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-02-02T09:05:13.695-07:00</updated><title type='text'>reason why</title><content type='html'>People used to ask me why I wasn't married, why I didn't have a boyfriend etc. They don't much anymore. (Not sure why that is. Maybe they think I'm single by choice, or that I'm terribly picky, or maybe there is some reason that is glaringly obvious that no one has pointed out to me--because they think it is glaringly obvious). Anyway, the point being, I'm glad that I don't get asked anymore because that was a massive pain in the ass but at the same time, not ever being asked anymore makes me wonder if people have just given up hope for me and are prepared for my spinster-hood (not to mention the fact that I now own a spinning wheel. So I really am a spinster. Both kinds.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to try to come up with the BEST response to the question. The response that would set people in their place and let them know how rude it was to ask and how unbothered I was (whether or not that was true) by the situation. It was quite amusing to think of answers but I never used any of them. (I tend to back down when faced with a situation to put someone in their place)(most of the time).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent time trying to think of answers because the true reason only would have led to awkward pity and a sudden urge to change the subject and/or flee. The true reason is that I never had much chance to change my "status" in this area. I've had lots of guy friends in my life and the occasional guy who was "interested" in me but these situations never led to anything more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The guys who were "interested" generally quickly lost interest after either:&lt;br /&gt;a)10 days or b) 2 dates, which ever came first. Almost without exception those guys used some variation of one of the following to indicate their desire to flee the scene:&lt;br /&gt;1. "We can still be friends"&lt;br /&gt;2. "I think we should spend more time with our own friends"&lt;br /&gt;3. They would employ the tried and tested "avoid her until she gets the hint" maneuver.&lt;br /&gt;Also almost without exception, these guys ended up either getting back together with an ex or meeting someone else within a couple of weeks and most of them ended up marrying that person. In one case, the guy met his next girlfriend &lt;em&gt;WHILE&lt;/em&gt; he and I were on a date. That was fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of the guy friends that I've had, once in a while, one of them would turn into a slightly-more-than-just-a-buddy type friend. There might be a bit of flirting, or other non-buddy type behavior. Increased contact, more time spent together etc. Then, just when the girl part of my brain starts to think "huh. This is new. Maybe I AM interested in him." one of the following happens:&lt;br /&gt;1. The guy friend declares his interest/affection/undying love for my close girl friend. He asks for my assistance in wooing her.&lt;br /&gt;2. He starts dating someone and stops talking to me altogether&lt;br /&gt;3. The topic of whether there would ever be something more comes up or is suggested by an outside person and the guy-friend's response is a horrified "Oh God NO! Never!" after which I am relegated to the former friend pile and left to deal with the loss of a friend AND the fact that I had become interested in him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Other than the 2 types of male interaction above, I've been hit on by married guys, by guys who are 12 or more years younger than me, by really annoying guys who have very little sense of personal hygene... Maybe I should be studied by a team of scientists for my amazing powers of both attracting unsuitable types and repelling any potential interests. I wonder what that would pay?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, that, is why I am single. And why I just avoided the question whenever I was asked. And why I'm glad it's no longer being asked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(sorry.  this wasn't funny either.  I'll work on that)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-3719101495391994180?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/3719101495391994180/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=3719101495391994180&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3719101495391994180'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3719101495391994180'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/02/reason-why.html' title='reason why'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-427435012923097628</id><published>2007-02-01T22:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-02-01T22:46:25.681-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My dad</title><content type='html'>&lt;em&gt;(I haven't posted in so so so long.  I keep composing posts in my head but not actually posting them.  I've been trying to come up with 5 interesting things for the meme &lt;a href="http://yetanotherbloomingblog.blogspot.com/index.html"target="_blank"&gt;Antonia&lt;/a&gt; tagged me with, but I can't think of 5 things period, let alone 5 interesting things.  I'll work on it)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Four years ago today (Feb. 1) my dad died.  I wrote about him on his birthday a couple of years ago (&lt;a href="http://yesimadethat.blogspot.com/2005/07/happy-birthday-dad.html"target="_blank"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;) and I wanted to share it here today.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss him still, although I realized recently that it's been easier as the days and years go by.  Today I was a little bit weepy and emotional but mostly I was able to remember happy things about my dad.  I hope that as time goes by I will be able to keep all those happy, funny memories and let the memories of his last days slide from the forefront.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I'll try to be funny next time.  Or at least not so sedate.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-427435012923097628?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/427435012923097628/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=427435012923097628&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/427435012923097628'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/427435012923097628'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/02/my-dad.html' title='My dad'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-3521917616619070192</id><published>2007-01-07T17:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-01-07T17:38:41.855-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I resolve (pt.2)</title><content type='html'>I found this random resolution generator by way of (someone's) blog.  I decided to keep hitting refresh and come up with a workable list of resolutions.  I think I can live with these.  (these are the first 10 that I was presented with.  I think they're better than my REAL resolutions)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Eat more junk food.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://resolution.geek-foo.net" style="text-decoration:none;color:red;"&gt;Get your resolution here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not sure why I didn't think of this one myself.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Dedicate my life to making someone else's horribly miserable.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All I have to do is pick the lucky person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Wear more lacy black lingerie.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;um.  hmm...  well...  um...  ehem...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Make the FBIs most wanted list.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This could be interesting.  I'll have to brainstorm methods.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Find Bin-Laden.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No problem.  I used to live in Pakistan after all.  I wonder if I could use this one to negotiate when I acheive #4?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Become an online stalker.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NO. PROBLEM.  (wink)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Stop wearing pants again.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This could create some interesting situations.  Especially if I follow through on #3. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Watch more TV.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;NO. PROBLEM.&lt;/b&gt;  The new season of 24 starts next week.  This will dovetail nicely with #1.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Stop being a sissy and fight the bully who keeps stealing my milk money.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, it has been a long time coming.  Maybe THIS is how I can make the FBI's most wanted list!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10.  &lt;table align="center" style="width:300px;border:1px solid black;background-color:white;color: black;margin: 10px 0 10px 0;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;&lt;p style="color:black;font-size:14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the year 2007 I resolve to:&lt;br&gt;Forget my New Year's Resolution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="font-size14px;padding:0;margin:5px 0 5px 0;text-align:center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My what now?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-3521917616619070192?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/3521917616619070192/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=3521917616619070192&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3521917616619070192'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/3521917616619070192'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-resolve-pt2.html' title='I resolve (pt.2)'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-4220547179041656819</id><published>2007-01-07T10:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-01-07T10:40:34.546-07:00</updated><title type='text'>a list!  with sub points and sub sub points!  and no real POINT!</title><content type='html'>1.  New Mattress=first really good night(s) sleep I've had in years.  Who knew that crappy thin mattresses where you can actually feel the springs through the surface of the mattress would not be conducive to good sleep?  Huh.  Interesting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2.  The parade of sick people (FLU!) at work that began mid-December continues still. &lt;br /&gt;2. a.  Each and every sick person at work was met, by myself &amp; my coworker sitting at the front desk with the following statement:  "Why are you here?  Go home!  You're sick!"&lt;br /&gt;2. b.  Having successfully avoided the first 2 or 3 waves of the flu (Yay &lt;a href="http://www.cold-fx.com/"target="_blank"&gt;Cold FX&lt;/a&gt;!!) it seems to have tracked me down finally.  I'b sick.  &lt;em&gt;hack hack&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. c.  I went in to work on Friday, feeling like I had been run over by a truck of some sort.&lt;br /&gt;2. c. i.  I went to work because I'm still new there and I don't know what the sick day policy is and somewhere in the back of my head is this belief that if I just &lt;em&gt;call&lt;/em&gt; in they may not believe me and it will look bad and they will be disappointed in me.&lt;br /&gt;2. c. ii.  My coworker (who is still sitting at the front desk with me*) said "You shouldn't have come in" and sent me home at 10 am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3.  I have a slightly over-active "I don't want to disappoint (person who will be disappointed) so I'll just (do thing that I shouldn't/can't/don't want to do) so they won't be disappointed" gene.  (also a slightly over-active obtuse sentence structure gene)&lt;br /&gt;3. a. My friend (my closest friend) is moving today and I had told her that I would help if I wasn't too sick.  She knows that I'm sick.  She told me yesterday that she understands if I'm not able to make it and that more than help she really just wanted company.  She understands, I know that.  &lt;br /&gt;3. a. i.  I feel horrible as though I have deeply disappointed her.  &lt;br /&gt;3. a. ii.  It's possible I should just get some more Tylenol and go to sleep.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*The 2 girls who have been sitting at the desk with me (there are 2 work stations at the reception desk) "training me" didn't ever say how long they planned to sit there.  I had thought a week, then they were still there so I thought, oh, okay.  2 weeks.  Still there.  Finally they said that because of all of the horrendous experiences** with the previous 3 or 4 employees at that desk, they had decided before I was hired that for the next one, 3 MONTHS.  MONTHS.  I'm the receptionist.  I need to deal with the phones, and with processing walk in orders and invoicing service repair bills.  Thankfully, they have since reconsidered and they had said that I would be on my own after Christmas.  Well, I wasn't on my own last week.  Hopefully this coming week I will be.  I'm trying to not feel insulted by this, I mean, I've been doing reception type work for about 15 years off and on, and I've been doing industry-specific order desk and invoicing for over 2 years.  I think I can handle it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That said, I really like the 2 girls I work with***, I just can't deal with having someone sitting behind me ALL. DAY. LONG. (plus, the one who is there most frequently narrates her day to herself all day long.)(yeah.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;**I never met any of the previous employees who had my job, but one of them, apparently, would sleep at her desk.  When I first heard this, I thought they meant "when it was slow and there was no one in the reception area".  Apparently, it was any time of day, while there were customers coming and going, and while the girl training her was still sitting at the other work station.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***Sadly, not a muffin-top to be found.  I need to find some other sort of coworker stories to tell.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-4220547179041656819?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/4220547179041656819/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=4220547179041656819&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4220547179041656819'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4220547179041656819'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/01/list-with-sub-points-and-sub-sub-points.html' title='a list!  with sub points and sub sub points!  and no real POINT!'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-4697106692559076844</id><published>2007-01-01T23:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-01-01T23:58:55.153-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy New Year!</title><content type='html'>I just realized it's been a full month since I last posted.  Wow.  Well, I promise to get back into posting more frequently, but I just wanted to do a New Year's post.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(quick aside:  I didn't ever say anything about the new job, so I'll do a real post about it sometime soon.  I like it, the people are fun for the most part and I think in the end it was the right choice over all.  More on that another time)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was going to post last night, but, as it turns out, I was in the midst of a somewhat "single-still-yet-again-at-New-Year's" mope, so, I decided to spare you all that agony.  I decided instead that I need to figure out what I want to try to do to change the mope part (since the cynical side of me doesn't have high hopes about the "single still" part)(sorry, that was slightly "mope-ish").&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I started mentally listing things.  I &lt;em&gt;do&lt;/em&gt; love lists, as you may have noticed.  I don't know if these are proper resolutions or not, but they are things I think I need to do something about.  (I think "improve overall grammar usage" should be on that list)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(before I start, I just have to say this:  I think that almost any time in the past year that I have truly been in a "wah poor me all alone" mope phase, Bridget Jones' Diary is on TV somewhere, either that day or the day after.  How is that possible?  I always end up watching at least part of it, and always end up laughing, cheered up but also wishing that, just once, someone would like &lt;em&gt;ME&lt;/em&gt; "just as i am".  sigh.)(it's on right now)(sigh)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay then, on to the not-really-resolutions-list:&lt;br /&gt;1.  I tend to be far too hermit like, and the more hermit-like I am the harder it is to get out and do things.  So, I want to do new things, even by myself.  I will try to find things to do that will get me out of the house now and then.  &lt;br /&gt;2.  I am terrible at keeping in touch with people, even people in the city.  I tend to not call if I don't have anything specific to say because I don't want to bother people who probably have more stuff going on than I do.  So, I will call people I know more regularly, even when I don’t have anything specific to say.&lt;br /&gt;3.  I have started to realize that I have gotten so used to always being home by myself that when someone actually wants to spend time with me, I am mentally deciding if it's worth giving up whatever I had planned to do at home.  (i.e. knitting/spinning/tv)  So, I will stop planning my evenings alone in such a way that I consider the evenings plans mentally before accepting offers of something to do.&lt;br /&gt;4.  I will watch "24".  (I wanted at least ONE thing on the list that i will GLADLY and EASILY do.)(I planned to do this one anyway)&lt;br /&gt;5.  I will make an effort to speak to people and moderate how rambling/blabby I get when and if I do speak to people (side-effect of the shyness is that I get overly chatty and can't seem to turn it off.  whee)&lt;br /&gt;6.  I will write (here? anywhere?) at least 3 times a week.  &lt;br /&gt;7.  I will look into the possibility of pursuing my master's.  eventually.  (eventually pursue, not eventually look into it.)&lt;br /&gt;8.  I will make more of an effort to maintain a presence in my nieces and nephews' lives, not just at holidays.  &lt;br /&gt;9.  Make a decision about (situation I can't/won't spell out here) &lt;em&gt;I wasn't going to do this, because why include it on this list if I'm not going to spell it out since I can't give details here for a whole bunch of reasons, but I can't stand a list with a strange number of items.  It needs to be a good round number.   sorry.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10.  Add one more day per week on the bike OR add 10 more minutes each day that I do ride the bike.  One of the two.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, there you have it.  A list.  With 10 items.  Sort of resolutions, sort of just things I've been thinking about for a month or two (or 6 as the case may be).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hope the New Year started well for all of you.  Thanks for piping up from time to time to let me know you're here.  Here's to a super interesting 2007!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-4697106692559076844?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/4697106692559076844/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=4697106692559076844&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4697106692559076844'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/4697106692559076844'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2007/01/happy-new-year.html' title='Happy New Year!'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116504240952928565</id><published>2006-12-01T23:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-12-01T23:53:29.570-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Who needs online dating services?  I have a 7 year old niece...</title><content type='html'>My older brother, his wife and their three kids are in Calgary this weekend for a dog show (they are showing their &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newfoundland_(dog)"target="_blank"&gt;Newfoundland&lt;/a&gt;, Joy, who is so so so cute and also huge but mostly adorable)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I see this brother and his family whenever I go home to my Mom's, but they've never been able to make it to visit me here, so it was nice today to have a chance to spend time with them all.  All of my nephews and nieces* make me laugh harder than anyone else I know.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to the show this afternoon, watched them show Joy, and ended up with all three kids for the remainder of the afternoon.  The kids are 12, 7 and 5, so entertaining them is a challenge.  We settled on a DVD, which is a pretty common denominator for the three.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As it turns out, while I enjoyed spending time with them and they with me, my one bedroom apartment is not all that kid-friendly.  Or, more accurately, not all that kid-interesting.  The youngest, within seconds of walking through the door was asking where I kept all the toys.  I had made them hot chocolate but I don't have a table per se.  Then the middle one ate an entire box of Junior Caramels when I wasn't paying close enough attention (key quote:  "You didn't tell me not to eat them all")(great moments in auntie-dom)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went to meet up with my brother and his wife for supper, where I was treated to several awesome moments.  &lt;br /&gt;1.  My brother and sister-in-law will probably never need to worry that their kids are keeping secrets from them.  We hadn't even gotten through the door at the hotel and the kids had spilled it all:  the whole box of caramels, the trick I played on them with how far it was to my house, the youngest almost getting hit by a car (oh, yeah, another great moment in auntie-dom)(I'll be surprised if they let me near the kids tomorrow), how they were fighting&lt;br /&gt;2.  My youngest nephew, the 5 year old, astonished me with his vocabulary when he used the word "devastating" in a sentence.  (He used it incorrectly if we're going to be nit-picky about it, but where does a 5 year old learn the word "devastating"?)&lt;br /&gt;And, my favorite of all, a two-parter:&lt;br /&gt;3 a) when I said that my apartment isn't entirely "kid-friendly" when talking to my brother and his wife, the middle came up with the opinion that it was because I don't have kids.  Then the youngest piped up with "it's because you're not pregant yet!" (seriously, what is he learning in Kindergarten?) &lt;br /&gt;3 b) moments after that revelation, the middle one started grilling me about whether I would ever want to be married.  &lt;br /&gt;I said "Yes, one day, I would like to be married."  and we all laughed.&lt;br /&gt;  "Well," she asked, "Like soon?  Like this year?"  &lt;br /&gt;I wondered where she was going with this when she continued.  "Rayna and me have always wanted to be cousins."  &lt;br /&gt;Now, the kid can pull a non sequitor like nobody's business, so i didn't immediately try to make the connection.  But when she continued, it all came together for me:&lt;br /&gt;"She has an uncle.  I don't think HE'S married either.  AND he lives in Calgary!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My entire family:  matchmakers**.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;em&gt;(well, other than the brand new niece, I haven't met her yet.  I'm expecting great things from her but I'll give her a little time to grow into her sense of humor.  Or, you know, to be able to hold her head up.) &lt;br /&gt;**(none of them has ever actually gone so far as to actually set me up with anyone, mind you, just that they all want to "hint" about various single men of their aquaintence)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116504240952928565?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116504240952928565/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116504240952928565&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116504240952928565'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116504240952928565'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/12/who-needs-online-dating-services-i.html' title='Who needs online dating services?  I have a 7 year old niece...'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116460720215613412</id><published>2006-11-26T22:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-11-26T23:00:02.173-07:00</updated><title type='text'>*sob*</title><content type='html'>DAMN &lt;a href="http://www.hallmark.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/article|10001|10051|/HallmarkSite/HallmarkHallOfFame/HHOF_TOP"target="_blank"&gt;HALLMARK HALL OF FAME!!&lt;/a&gt;  WHY did I WATCH?  It's only 45 minutes in and I'm sobbing already from the Hallmark commercial with the girl at her parents house for her birthday and the mom tells her the card is from both of them and she doesn't believe her mom and the girl starts to read it and the dad comes around the corner...  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WHY did I watch?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A friend of mine says that everyone has one movie that they love that they would never tell anyone about.  For me, it's not one movie, it's one genre.  I rarely let anyone know that I get sucked into these TV movies all the time.  (Also, Hugh Grant movies, but that's not AS embarassing).  These Hallmark Hall of Fame ones are the worst!  The commercials are mostly Hallmark commercials and they are ALL meant to make me cry.  Weep even.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stupid Hallmark and their heart warming commercials and made-for-TV movies.  That little boy didn't know what Christmas was all about until he took his mother's Christmas card to that scary old lady.  *sob*  And that dad didn't know how to communicate his love to his daughter.  *weep*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I better go.  There's another hour left in the movie.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116460720215613412?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116460720215613412/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116460720215613412&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116460720215613412'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116460720215613412'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/11/sob.html' title='*sob*'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116451188727655658</id><published>2006-11-25T20:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-11-25T20:39:28.666-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Good News/Bad News</title><content type='html'>Friday was like one long Good News/Bad News joke.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Good News:  I woke up feeling rested and happy that it was Friday&lt;br /&gt;Bad News:  It was -15 (Celsius) and was supposed to drop to below -20 by afternoon.&lt;br /&gt;Good News:  I got an early start on my way to work&lt;br /&gt;Bad News:  Deerfoot was backed up and I still ended up being late&lt;br /&gt;Good News:  The day was quiet in the morning&lt;br /&gt;Bad News:  The day suddenly got crazy busy after lunch&lt;br /&gt;Good News:  My manager suddenly (at 4:45 pm) told me that I didn’t have to come in on Monday and Tuesday and that they would pay me for those days.&lt;br /&gt;Bad News:  He sat and watched me finish up as though he expected me to sabotage something or steal something.&lt;br /&gt;Good News:  It was my last time having to spend upwards of 20 minutes each way on Deerfoot just to get to and from work.  &lt;br /&gt;Bad News:  I got rear-ended on my way home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seriously.  I got rear-ended.  About 5 minutes into my drive, traffic suddenly was stacked up.  I came to a complete stop, as did the 1000s of other drivers on the road.  Except the guy behind me.  Who did not stop.  Well, he didn't stop until he hit me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My head whipped forward, along with every item in my car, and then whipped back (or it may have been the other way around.  I wasn’t really paying attention to the sequence of my head whipping around).  I sat, stunned, for a few minutes, realizing “That actually happened!?” and realized that my neck hurt.  And my head really hurt.  And my back hurt.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I finally pulled over onto the shoulder (luckily I was in an outside lane) and slowly got out.  I expected the whole back end to be smashed in.  I thought I had heard glass breaking at the point of impact.  Amazingly (to me anyway) there was no real damage to my car.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The other driver pulled up behind me.  I won’t go into the whole thing here because, frankly I don’t have a lot of kind words for him.  Let’s just say he is new to Calgary (and probably to Canada), he didn’t want to give me his insurance information, and his wife kept telling me “Oh, you’re fine!  Your car is fine!  It’s no problem.”  Um.  Excuse me lady but shut it.  You are not a mechanic nor are you a doctor so shut it.  I nearly lost it when the driver started telling me that he had skidded “on all the gravel”.  (There was no gravel on the road, nor was it icy)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ve been driving Deerfoot every work day both directions for 2 years and have never had even a real close call.  I’ve had to stop suddenly and nearly got sideswiped a couple of times, but nothing really had ever happened.  After I stopped being freaked out I just kept thinking:  “This was the LAST time!!  My LAST Deerfoot commute!!”  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, overall, a very strange last day at work.  Especially since none of my coworkers know that it was my last day.  The managers at that place do strange things and have this wierd secrecy thing.  And, also, my manager suddenly realized on Friday that I would be gone a few days before they had to do inventory.  (Ask me how disappointed I am about that)(haha)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At least today has been good news.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This morning, I was looking at the phone at about 10:30 my time, thinking about calling my mom.  Then, I thought “Well, Keri will be having the baby today so Mom won’t be home.”  My mom was on constant watch to be on the road immediately when my sister, Keri, went into labor, but I hadn't talked to either of them for several days.  Initially my sister’s due date was November 26th.  Then they changed it to Dec. 5.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At about 3 in the afternoon my sister-in-law called to tell me that they had just heard that my sister had the baby.  Guess what time she had the baby.  Go on.  Guess.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At about 10:30 am my time.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Spooky, huh?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I will be relaxing* this coming week.  I start at the new job on December 4.  I'm looking forward to it, especially considering the way the Cool Kids were acting this week.  (Whew am I glad to be done with them!)  I plan to spend my week working on Christmas presents that I am knitting and I'm hoping to brave the mall one morning.  I may be delusional, but it seems to me that a weekday morning will be much less crowded than an evening or a weekend.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*This is what the week's forecast looks like (these are in Celsius):&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7718/1086/1600/851931/week%20forecast.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7718/1086/320/791003/week%20forecast.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See that?  This is a pretty normal Calgary forecast.  Monday and Tuesday (when I can stay home and warm!) the weather is "Sweet Fancy Moses!  I can't feel my nose!"  then by Friday (when my niece wants me to take her to the zoo!) it's "Where are my shorts?"&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116451188727655658?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116451188727655658/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116451188727655658&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116451188727655658'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116451188727655658'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/11/good-newsbad-news.html' title='Good News/Bad News'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116422095748731043</id><published>2006-11-22T10:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-24T19:54:31.850-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Je m'amuse</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Take This Job and Shove It Countdown&lt;/strong&gt;: 5 (well, 4 1/2 now) days remaining!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Add to the fact that I'm feeling slightly bitter and/or cynical about my current employer and about the fact that the owner of this company asked me to "keep it secret" until Monday (for who knows what reason, really.), I'm bored. We have been very slow for a week or so now. I'm trying to get things cleaned up as much as possible for my replacement and training him as things come up but, there's only so much a person can do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I've been amusing myself. While I've been keeping on top of the work that needs doing, I've tested my hand/eye coordination and practiced &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.107.peugeot.co.uk/peugeot.swf" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;parking&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;. I studied &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://youtube.com/results?search_query=miss+swan" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;Miss Swan&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt; videos in order to perfect my imitation. I may have watched some &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://youtube.com/results?search_query=stuart+mad+tv" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;Stuart&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt; videos as well. (I have come to the belief that a well-timed, unexpected Stuart imitation will make almost anyone laugh so hard they turn bright red and stop breathing.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;So far today, in addition to some mundane paperwork, I've talked to my sister and a friend online, I've contemplated RSVPing that I will be attending the company Christmas party. It's 3 days after my last day, but, since I'm supposed to keep it a secret, they don't know that. I've made mental lists of what I will do with my days off after my last day here and before my first day at the new job (hints: sleeping, watching daytime tv, knitting).  Blog reading takes up some time, as does random link-following.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"&gt;So, now, I'm trying to come up with other ways to amuse myself while keeping up with the little bits of work that need doing. Ideas?  I want something that will cause people to wonder what the hell I'm doing (but since the cool kids don't talk to me no one will actually ask).  I'm thinking about making a big countdown calendar for my desk.  Or sending myself "Congratulations on your new job" flowers.   &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;Maybe I'll just start knitting at my desk during work hours.  Or I could bring in my sewing machine.  Or, I'll just keep reading blogs and watching YouTube.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;(4 1/2 more days!!!!!!!!!)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;I just had the best idea!  I have about 990 of my business cards left.  Maybe I'll work on a craft project with them.  Ooo.  That sounds like fun.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116422095748731043?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116422095748731043/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116422095748731043&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116422095748731043'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116422095748731043'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/11/je-mamuse.html' title='Je m&apos;amuse'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116413392156246685</id><published>2006-11-21T10:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-11-21T11:32:01.626-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ahhhh...  That's better</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Last time I wrote, I was stressing about the job decision I had to make. I finally had my meeting with the manager in question. They were not willing to move on the salary. In fact he seemed flabbergasted (I love that word) that I felt I could get more elsewhere.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I informed them about the other offer which they seemed to be skeptical about. I went back to my desk and waited to hear from them. They declined the opportunity to counteroffer. In fact, they basically told me I'm not worth it. Which was nice of them. (imagine for a moment the amazing self control it took to not yell at him. I just sat calmly and said I would think about it)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I handed in my resignation this morning. I feel so free.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Except for the fact that these people, for whom I have put in an average of 9.5 hours per day for over a year now, are responding to me as though I am a marginal employee at best. As though I have no real input or contribution to make. These are the same people who are constantly praising me to customers, who offered me the job because they saw that I was already doing that work on my own because I saw a need. Then they turned around and told me that they weren't interested in offering more money (their offer was what I should have been making as a starting salary)(and was less than the starting salary of the guy who will take over my job)(he started 3 months ago). They said that I needed to "prove myself capable" in the new job before they would consider an increase in pay. I have already been doing the job. For 2 years.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I handed over my notice, the response was, "Well, we wish you well" and "Please keep this secret until Monday" (I'm done on the 28th! Yay!!). No mention of "We'll miss you" or "We're sad to see you go" or "Thank you for all your hard work".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ask me how sure I am (now) that I made the right decision.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I quit. I QUIT!!!!!!!! The new employers are very excited to have me come work for them, which definately cancels out the response here. I don't have any delusions that the new work will be magical and fairytale happy, but I know that I will be appreciated there and that counts for a lot. Plus, I've seen the other employees and there is not a muffin top to be found.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whew.   I want to make a big count-down calendar and make a big show of tearing off a page a day.  I'm also mentally listing all the stories i can tell now that I won't be an employee here anymore.   Yay.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;PS.  Antonia, thanks for your comment. and, *blush*, you're too kind... The email announcing your comment came as I was sitting back down minutes after handing in my resignation! The email from you sort of reminded me I did the right thing!(Thanks)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the rest of you, if you haven't been to see Antonia's &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://yetanotherbloomingblog.blogspot.com/index.html" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;blog&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt; (and brand new baby, awwww...) you should. So. Funny. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116413392156246685?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116413392156246685/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116413392156246685&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116413392156246685'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116413392156246685'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/11/ahhhh-thats-better.html' title='Ahhhh...  That&apos;s better'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116397039574425944</id><published>2006-11-19T13:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-11-19T14:06:35.763-07:00</updated><title type='text'>AAAGGGGHHHH!!!</title><content type='html'>I haven’t written/posted anything in a long time.  To my vast readership (har) I apologize.   The thing is, some stuff has been going on that I really wanted to write about but didn’t/couldn’t because of one or all of the following: &lt;br /&gt;a)  people involved know about this blog&lt;br /&gt;b) it was work related&lt;br /&gt;c)  I couldn’t figure out how to write about it.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still don’t really know how to write about any of it other than to say this:  If you are EVER, for any reason looking for a sure-fire way to make me completely insane and trigger my stress-related intestinal issues (ew) here’s how to go about it:&lt;br /&gt;1.  Put me in a situation where a decision has to be made.&lt;br /&gt;2.  Force me to make that decision&lt;br /&gt;3.  Give me 2 options with equal pros and cons to both&lt;br /&gt;4.  Add to the mix the fact that my decision will affect other people&lt;br /&gt;5.  Force me to wait 3 weeks in between telling me I have a decision to make and the time when I can finally have all the info needed to make the decision.&lt;br /&gt;6.  Add in some guilt and self-recrimination about issues that are only marginally connected to the decision but which have somehow made themselves integral to the decision.&lt;br /&gt;7.  Stir and allow to steep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In a nutshell:  I was approached 3 weeks ago by a manager at my work asking me to switch to his team.  This would be a promotion and was to be accompanied by “a significant raise”.  This manager then went away for 3 weeks without providing me with the information needed to make a decision about this promotion (i.e. the salary and job description).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the meantime, I was approached by another company who want me to come work for them (eee!!).  The salary they offered was SIGNIFICANTLY higher than what I currently make, but the work itself is exactly what i’ve been doing for the past 2 years.  By the time this offer came to me I had started to really look forward to the change in position that the offer from my company afforded me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then the salary offer from my current company came in and, well, it was disappointing.  Almost insulting, actually.  I know for a fact that their offer is lower than the &lt;em&gt;starting&lt;/em&gt; salary of at least one of my coworkers (a guy).  In fact, that particular coworker will be taking over the position I am to be promoted out of.  I have been with this company for 2 years.  This is my second promotion with this company.  My coworkers (the non-Jr. High Cool Kids ones) generally come to me for answers and/or help with issues all day, every day.  But somehow I am worth less per year than he is?   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It sounds like a no-brainer:  go with the money.  I realize this is the obvious answer.  And, if my current company balks when I ask for more money then I will go with the money.  The thing is:  the new job doesn’t really entice me.  The idea of moving away from the Jr. High atmosphere at my current work is appealing.  The new job is closer to where I live, also appealing.  But the actual work is what I had been hoping to get away from.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AAAGGGGHHHH.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I try to turn my brain off but it doesn’t work.  I had finally gotten ahold of the manager at my current work on Wednesday and he assured me I would have answers first thing Thursday (my birthday*.  Yay me).  Well, I didn’t have the answers first thing Thursday.  Then all day long I had to stew about it, ended up getting in an online argument of sorts with a friend about it, then finally got my answers which ended up raising more questions...  Let’s just say this birthday was not the best one ever.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I did have lunch with one of my best friends and my other best friend took me for dinner and to a concert, so I really did have some celebrating.  But underlying (or overshadowing, one of the two) everything was this looming decision.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I meet with the manager tomorrow.  They don’t know about the other job offer because I haven’t had opportunity to talk to them about it.  Salary aside, I have concerns that I want them to address before I accept the job, assuming they would meet the other offer.  If they don’t then this is all moot.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I already say AAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also, to add to the fun times happiness:  One of the other managers announced to the staff that I was taking the new position within our company.  2 weeks ago.  Before I had even said anything about it.  Which started a shitstorm of hate from the Jr. High Cool Kids I work with.  Whee.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know:  why am I even stressing about it?  Take the new job!  But...  But...  AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ll be back posting (irregularly) about nothing when this all gets sorted.  Although, if i take the new job I won’t have any funny new stories about the cool kids to tell.  But, I guess I would be free to tell the stories that I have about them since I won’t be working there anymore.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See, it’s hard!  Both sides are equal!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*36**&lt;br /&gt;**Just 2 weeks ago someone assumed I was 25, so I’m not too too pissed about turning 36...  &lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116397039574425944?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116397039574425944/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116397039574425944&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116397039574425944'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116397039574425944'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/11/aaagggghhhh.html' title='AAAGGGGHHHH!!!'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116179873188365925</id><published>2006-10-25T11:47:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-10-25T11:52:11.916-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Anyone got a pen I could borrow?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;I’m just not one of the cool kids.  Really.  I’m not.  Just ask the cool kids, they’ll tell you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ve gotten used to this feeling at work.  I tend to refer to work as a Junior High.  (Not necessarily in conversation with anyone actually AT work, you understand)  I don’t know how it all happened, but there is a “clique” of “cool kids” and friend, I am NOT in the clique! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ask me how sad this makes me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mostly it just makes for some funny stories.  I am still trying to figure out the best way to be able to share those here.  For today, I’ll just tell you about how only The Cool KIds can obtain and use office supplies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of my co-workers is in charge of the office supplies.  This makes sense.  The thing is, that this co-worker is so completely controlling about the office supplies that I may as well just go buy my own stuff.  Pens, sticky notes, paper clips, you know, the big ticket items, they are all under lock and key.  I have gone to get staples and was handed one (yes!  ONE) strip of staples.  Why, THANK you, this should solve all of my paper fastening dilemmas!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;About a year ago I requested a specific pen.  I was told it was too expensive.  (it was $2.50CDN).  Okay, I thought, I’ll make due.  Then, a few weeks later, I notice a steady stream of new office supplies coming in and being distributed to The Cool Kids.  Hmm…  look at that!  The “super expensive” pen I requested is being used by the receptionist.  Fancy that! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I requested a 3” binder for some items that need to be kept in a binder at my desk.  It took 5 requests and 3 months before I actually GOT the binder.  That I needed.  For my JOB.  I finally had someone else request it and it got delivered within a week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hmm…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most recently, I requested a foot-rest for my desk.  (Because I’m ancient apparently.)  Office Supply Officer (OSO) ignored my request(s) for a few weeks.  Finally I cornered spoke to OSO while other people were present.  The next day, I came in and there was a (used) footrest under my desk!  Yay!  I emailed OSO to say thanks and OSO replied that she didn’t have any need for one so I might as well have the one that she wasn’t using in order to save money for the company.  Fine with me.   (I have no problem with used office supplies.  I don’t need to spend tons of money on something I’m putting my feet on).  Earlier this morning I had to go make supplications to get some sticky notes and noticed, positioned carefully under OSO’s desk, a brand new, fancy-schmancy foot rest.  Hmm… &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I might just start requesting crazier and crazier “office” supplies and see what happens.  Any suggestions?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116179873188365925?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116179873188365925/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116179873188365925&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116179873188365925'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116179873188365925'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/10/anyone-got-pen-i-could-borrow.html' title='Anyone got a pen I could borrow?'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116172022920557230</id><published>2006-10-24T13:53:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-10-24T14:03:49.240-06:00</updated><title type='text'>chocolate saves the day!</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;You know what is bad? Having a stupid vending machine in the work place that ONLY takes Loonies*. In a work place that has no means of obtaining Loonies. You know what is good? Going in to the coffee room and seeing, placed on top of the offending Loonies-Only vending machine, a box of real-sized** Oh Henry!*** bars! (and being told "They're Free!") You know what is better? Having this happen on a day that you have forgotten to stock your bag with all manner of snack foods which also happens to be a day that you have run completely out of Loonies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mmm... chocolatey peanuty caramelly goodness...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*The Canadian Dollar coin is called a "Loonie" because there is a picture of a Loon on one side. Creative nickname, huh?****&lt;br /&gt;**as opposed to the Halloween "fun" sized bars&lt;br /&gt;***What is the deal with this name anyway? Google?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;****In order to preserve the Canadian stereotype I should have written "Creative nickname, eh?" ******&lt;br /&gt;*****Are these little notes at the end getting confusing and/or annoying? &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;I'm resisting the stupidly strong urge to carry on the multiple asterisk sidenote endnote thing and will just add this here:  When I typed the bit about the Loonie, I decided to Google "Loonie" and discovered that we only have the Loon design due to a Canada Post error!  Who knew?  (probably lots of Canadians.)  This just confirms my unhappiness with the Canada Post Delivery policies of not necessarily delivering packages that are addressed to me but rather holding on to them for some inexplicable reason until suddenly they decide to tell me I need to claim my package now! or it will be returned! to the sender!  (this has happened at least 6 times.  Yay Canada Post and your super helpful "Customer" "Service" "Helpline")&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;How did I go from a "Yay!  Free Chocolate!" post to a "Canada Post Sucks" post in such a short space?  hmm.  I must be just that talented.  You should come back every day.  And read.  RE-read even.  And comment.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;(now i've gone from the chocolate bit to the Canada Post bit to straight up "please comment" patheticness.)(is "patheticness" a word?  Probably not)(obviously this is a quality, entertaining blog.  You should visit more often.  Tell your friends.)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116172022920557230?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116172022920557230/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116172022920557230&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116172022920557230'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116172022920557230'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/10/chocolate-saves-day.html' title='chocolate saves the day!'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116171720926686583</id><published>2006-10-24T13:12:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-10-24T13:13:29.276-06:00</updated><title type='text'>NOT what it looks like.  Honest</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;Have you ever been eating a chocolate bar (mmm) and had a piece of the chocolate flake off and fall into your lap and maybe all the way to your chair without you noticing it and then later (much later) you realize that you’ve been sitting on the chocolate and you have a fairly unfortunate looking brown splotch on the ass of your pants?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah.  Me neither.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116171720926686583?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116171720926686583/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116171720926686583&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116171720926686583'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116171720926686583'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/10/not-what-it-looks-like-honest.html' title='NOT what it looks like.  Honest'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-116162716464509704</id><published>2006-10-23T11:52:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-10-23T12:12:44.696-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Pre-fab wear and tear</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;I have this whole post written about my shopping trip on Friday which is, unfortunately, on my computer at home. Since I am &lt;s&gt;slacking&lt;/s&gt;* writing this while things are slow at work this morning, I will just jump ahead.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I needed new jeans so I braved the mall on Friday and went hunting. I was surprised to find a pair that I really like. They fit like I want them to, they were not insanely expensive and they are comfortable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only thing is they have these faked worn-out spots. Why? Why do that? I can not take care of my clothing perfectly well on my own. I don’t need Giant-Clothing-Seller to do it for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know this isn't a new thing, in fact maybe that's what bothers me about it. Aren't we over this by now? The "whiskered" jeans (ugh) made to look like they are worn in and faded just so. The slightly frayed cuffs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's next? Slightly pre-worn out book jackets on new books so your book shelves look impressive? Shoes with the heels worn down slightly and a scuff mark on one toe?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What ever happened to letting the consumer purchase unsullied jeans and take them home, wear them in gradually, over time, until they fit only you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realize this post is one step away from some old-person rant about the way things used to be. It's just that I can SEE one of the "worn" spots on these new jeans just now and it's annoying me. If only they weren't comfortable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*Whatever happened to the term "slacker"? It used to be so cool to call someone a slacker. Now? Nothin'. huh.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-116162716464509704?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/116162716464509704/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=116162716464509704&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116162716464509704'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/116162716464509704'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/10/pre-fab-wear-and-tear.html' title='Pre-fab wear and tear'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115937913523310556</id><published>2006-09-27T11:41:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-27T11:50:24.343-06:00</updated><title type='text'>List Day: Traffic Tips</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;It’s Wednesday, and it feels like it should be Friday already dammit, and it’s only 10:30am (shh. work blogging. shh.) and feels like it should be 3:30pm, so, the only appropriate use of my time is obviously to make a list.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I love lists. Don’t know why. I just do. I could make a list of the reasons I like to list things.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;u&gt;Driving Tips by Lori&lt;/u&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;: &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;1. When driving on Deerfoot Trail (main “freeway” type road in Calgary) the signs reading “100km/hr” are important. That means you are meant to go that speed. Think about it. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;2. When driving on Deerfoot, the signs reading “Slower Traffic Keep Right” are important. That means that you (yes YOU) should pull over out of the left-most lane into the right-most lane because you (yes YOU) are driving 80km/hr (see Tip #1) &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;3. When driving (especially on a main thoroughfare), it is helpful to pay attention to the other drivers around you. You may find that checking/sending email, talking on your cell phone, reading the newspaper, applying makeup, and turning around to smack your child may interfere with your ability to pay attention. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;4. When driving, if you are coming up to an area where a merge lane will deposit drivers onto the road on which you are currently traveling, it is common courtesy to move over if there is no one in the lane next to you. This is, of course, as opposed to purposely blocking the merging driver. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;5. If you are the driver attempting to merge onto another road, the drivers behind you might not appreciate if you come to a dead stop. Especially if the lane you are trying to get into has NO ONCOMING TRAFFIC. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;6. Most modern vehicles have come with a handy, built-in device to enable you, the driver, to communicate your intentions with the drivers around you as you navigate from lane to lane to lane to lane to lane. You might even refer to it as a Signalling device. Contact your car dealer to get more information about this. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;7. If you are attempting to make a left hand turn, and there is a long line of cars behind you all waiting to make a left hand turn, please consider making this turn at a speed greater than 2 km/hr. This way, more than one vehicle will be able to get through on the turn arrow. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;8. If you are making a right hand turn, consider the fact that the driver behind you might not want to stop completely while you contemplate the unique nature of the right-hand turn in a traffic environment in which the drivers sit on the left in the car and drive on the right of the road. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;9&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;. If you drive a Honda Accord, you have no reason to park diagonally across 2 parking spots. Ditto almost ANY OTHER MAKE/MODEL of vehicle. If your car is too precious to risk having another human being come close to it, keep it at home, in a glass box, surrounded by those velvet rope-chain things, with a high tech security system as intended by the manufacturer.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;10. I don’t have a number 10. I just always need to have a well-rounded list. 9 items is not well rounded. Sorry. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115937913523310556?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115937913523310556/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115937913523310556&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115937913523310556'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115937913523310556'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/list-day-traffic-tips.html' title='List Day: Traffic Tips'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115894529323023146</id><published>2006-09-22T10:45:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-22T11:14:53.320-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Fully aware that i am breaking my own rule...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;I was NOT going to blog about work.  Honest.  But, seriously, it's just so funny.  It's that kind of funny where you have to laugh about it or else it becomes one of those news stories with the footage shot from a news-chopper of the building surrounded by police vehicles.  You know.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;I have nicknames for many of my coworkers.  These nicknames are strictly inside-my-head (and sometimes in my stories to my friends)(and now on my blog)(which I promised never to do) mostly because I don't know that the co-workers would necessarily find them as humorous or as fitting as I do.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;Today is one of those days where I wish I had a video camera set up.  My desk looks out on a fairly open space and towards the reception area.  On the wall behind the reception desk hang framed certificates for training that our service shop guys have completed.  It makes sense to display these, since we are a factory authorized service facility.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Funny thing about the wall o'Awesome Achievement #1&lt;/b&gt;:  Our receptionist, Muffin Top (if you're not sure where that nickname came from, I can explain it) felt that we needed MORE proof of our awesomeness and has started to frame and display other sorts of certificates.  Certificates from "courses" that various employees have attended.  I say "courses" because these are the 4-6 hour "How to (insert vague work related task here) Effectively" type courses that are "taught" in a conference room at a hotel and in which at least 25% of the time is given over to promoting whatever self-help books are sold by the company that tie in with the "course".  The remainder of the time seems to be taken up with the "instructors" telling you things that you could figure out just by reading the outline on the brochure.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;(by now you may have recognized that I, myself, have been sent on a couple of these "courses".  Ask me how much new and useful information I learned)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;The certificates for these "courses" are handed out, completely filled out at the very beginning of the course.  So, basically it's a certificate of attendance.  Thank you.  I'll put that right next to my BA and display it proudly.  Along with all the yellow "Participant" ribbons from Elementary school Track and Field day.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;(I have never in my life won anything in any sort of sports/physical activity competition.  I had a lot of yellow "Participant" ribbons... )&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Funny thing about the wall o'Awesome Achievement #2&lt;/b&gt;:  Muffin Top had asked our shipper, Dumbass (not his real name) to hang the frames.  So, he eyeballed the placement and not a one was either a) level with its neighbor or b) straight.  So, when asked about this, Dumbass said that there was no way to get them level and/or straight.  Seriously.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;Now, this alone is pretty funny, but here's the funnier part:  The company I work for stocks and sells laser levels AND measuring equipment.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;When one of my (nicknameless at the moment) coworkers mentioned the laser levels to Dumbass, his response was "It didn't help.  None of the hooks are in the same place."  Now, the thing is:  Dumbass did not &lt;em&gt;try&lt;/em&gt; using a level to get them, oh, I don't know, level, but of course made it sound as though he had exhausted all possible avenues in his quest for perfect frame placement.  This is a fairly typical response from him.  No matter what he did or didn't do, there is no way in hell he will take any responsibility for it.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;So, now he's hanging more certificates and now, he's hanging pictures.  Without making sure anything is level.  The pictures are permanently affixed to the wall.  Without making sure anything is level.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;I wish I had a video camera.  Seriously.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115894529323023146?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115894529323023146/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115894529323023146&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115894529323023146'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115894529323023146'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/fully-aware-that-i-am-breaking-my-own.html' title='Fully aware that i am breaking my own rule...'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115893921820800164</id><published>2006-09-22T09:00:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-22T09:33:38.266-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Great Moments in Auntie-dom</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;I love being an Auntie. I currently have 7 nieces and nephews and there are 2 more on the way. The oldest is 13 (!!!) and the youngest (currently) are 1 year old twins. I don't live close to any of them, which is sad really because I love hanging out with them. I get to do that "cool-auntie" thing and play with them but then they go home or I go home so I don't have to deal with any risidual crankiness...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yesterday was my nephew T's birthday. He turned 5. I called to say Happy Birthday and ask him what he wanted (I know. Bad Auntie). This is a transcript of that conversation:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(My brother puts T on the phone)&lt;br /&gt;T: I'm 5 now!! Who is this?&lt;br /&gt;Me: It's Auntie Lori. I know you're 5, I'm calling to say Happy Birthday!&lt;br /&gt;T: It's my birthday? (turns away from the phone and shouts to his family) &lt;b&gt;IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: Did you not know that?&lt;br /&gt;T: Yeah, I know that. I'm 5 now!&lt;br /&gt;Me: Yeah, I know. So, how's school? You started Kindergarten, right?&lt;br /&gt;T: (shouting)&lt;b&gt;YES!!!!!!!!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;T is a "man's man" but will ALWAYS come running to give you a hug when he sees you. He'll wrestle you to the ground or pull you off the couch (very very strong child) but he loves being cuddled. He is ridiculously polite but when he gets excited, he tends to shout-talk. Loudly. He is also a farm kid through and through. He talks about farming constantly. He knows more about a lot of the equipment than I do.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: So, what would you like for your birthday?&lt;br /&gt;T: a &lt;b&gt;MONSTER TRUCK!!&lt;/b&gt; and &lt;b&gt;FIVE CULTIVATORS!!!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: oh, really? 5 cultivators?&lt;br /&gt;T: &lt;b&gt;YES!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(incoherant babble)&lt;br /&gt;Me: Well, I should let you go. Did you have supper already?&lt;br /&gt;T: I already ate!!! We had &lt;b&gt;LASAGNE!!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: Oh really? I'm having lasagne too!&lt;br /&gt;T: You &lt;b&gt;ARE???&lt;/b&gt; (turns away to shout at his family) &lt;b&gt;AUNTIE LORI IS HAVING LASAGNE TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;(I'm guestimating the amount of exclamation marks based on his total excitement over what he was saying)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: Guess what I'm doing tonight?&lt;br /&gt;T: What?&lt;br /&gt;Me: I'm going to a hockey game later on.&lt;br /&gt;T: Oh. Bye (hangs up)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love that kid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115893921820800164?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115893921820800164/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115893921820800164&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115893921820800164'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115893921820800164'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/great-moments-in-auntie-dom.html' title='Great Moments in Auntie-dom'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115886253128553655</id><published>2006-09-21T12:06:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-21T12:15:31.300-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Overheard</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;I swore that I wouldn't write about work. I swore it. I think I can rationalize this one though as, even though it happened at work, it has nothing to do with work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I frequently overhear inane and seemingly endless conversations due to the placement of my workspace. I won't get into the whole thing but this one just made me laugh so hard I had to share it. (lucky you) Also, I'm gonna spare you the verbatim transcript of the first 15 minutes of the conversation and just give you the line I like best (the subject matter of the conversation should be directly inferred from the following exerpt):&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"George Foreman must be a very intelligent man. He designed an AMAZING grill!"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115886253128553655?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115886253128553655/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115886253128553655&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115886253128553655'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115886253128553655'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/overheard.html' title='Overheard'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115859942349615062</id><published>2006-09-18T10:54:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-18T11:10:23.556-06:00</updated><title type='text'>What kind of day are you planning?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Brief Administrative Note in an effort to hold myself accountable and/or develop some sort of self-discipline: &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;I started this here little blog with the thought that I would try to write something most every day. That has not happened. I want to develop the practice of writing and so, therefore, dear reader(s) (are there more than one of you? is there even one of you? oh! there you are! Hi!) I will probably be posting a lot of nonsense until I get more into the habit. Or, maybe once I get going I will be posting a lot of nonsense because maybe that's where my brain is and will be at. We'll see.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Yesterday afternoon I was at Safeway stocking up on Mini Wheats (in order to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/of-course.html" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;break off more of my tooth&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;) and sandwich provisions for another week of &lt;s&gt;mind numbing&lt;/s&gt; &lt;s&gt;junior high&lt;/s&gt; &lt;s&gt;drudgery&lt;/s&gt; work. While at the check out I happened to look at the small pile of goods the man behind me had placed on the counter*:&lt;br /&gt;1 - 250ml carton of half &amp; half&lt;br /&gt;3 - toothbrushes&lt;br /&gt;2 - razors&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started trying to figure out what was going on in his house and I ended up laughing, to myself, with him standing a foot behind me, while the check-out boy attempted to flirt with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(BTW: Note to Check Out Boy: I'm sure that you are probably one of the nicest, cutest boys in 10th grade, but you're just not my type. I think it's best if we see other people. You understand.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All day, and into today, the image of that little pile of stuff keeps popping into my head and I keep trying to work it out. I wonder if anyone ever looks at what I'm buying and wonders what I'm doing. Maybe I need to re-think my purchasing habits. Maybe I over think things too much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;*Why has my brain completely blanked on the name of the "counter" where you put your stuff on one end and it gets carried to the other end as if by magic?&lt;/em&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115859942349615062?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115859942349615062/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115859942349615062&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115859942349615062'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115859942349615062'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/what-kind-of-day-are-you-planning.html' title='What kind of day are you planning?'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115773718655212113</id><published>2006-09-08T11:11:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-08T11:44:27.253-06:00</updated><title type='text'>of course 2:  look out for falling anvils</title><content type='html'>You know how you always think "Well, it can't get any &lt;em&gt;worse&lt;/em&gt; right?  It's all better after this".  Well, you would be wrong (as would I for thinking that).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wednesday morning, because my car was on the street by the service shop, I had no way to get to work.  I walked down to the service shop with a key, got it checked in and was told it would probably be looked at later that day.  I walked home and tried to figure out what to do.  My friend Julie offered to drive me to work (Thanks Julie) and I actually felt like I was accomplishing something throughout most of the day.  The service shop called and said that it looked like it was the alternator (which is what I thought) and they were going to get it into the shop that afternoon and it would be done "first thing in the morning".  My friend Sunny Jim* offered me a lift home from work and the day was going okay.  I figured things were looking up.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(do you sense the foreboding?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thursday morning, because the Service Shop Guy said it would be ready first thing in the morning, I didn't bother trying to arrange a ride to work and had told them I would be in when the car was ready.  Then I waited.  And waited.  And maybe I waited a bit.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I called the Service Shop and couldn't get the Guy who was looking after my car.  When he finally called he said it was "just the battery" so that would be "$200".  I talked to my friend Sunny Jim just after that and told him what the Service Shop Guy had said.  Sunny Jim said he could get me a battery for about $60 and install it himself so I called the Service Shop Guy back and left a message to not do anything.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THEN 20 minutes later the Service Shop Guy said that they had finally done the evaluation on the car and it needs an alternator.  (this was the THIRD time that the SAME GUY told me that they had had a look at my car and here's what's wrong with it) He said this with a note of surprise in his voice, even though that was what he and I had originally thought.  Then, SURPRISE, it was going to come to just over $500!  (they said just under $400 the day before)(yikes)  I told him that my friend was going to be there with the battery soon and when Service Shop Guy heard me say that my GUY friend was coming to the Service Shop, suddenly my alternator dropped about $200 in price!!  Shocking!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So THEN it took about 2 hours longer to do the work than what they said and it was too late to bother going in to work anymore.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was a bit concerned about how things would be at work today, since I missed a whole day.  I had kept them informed about what was going on but my internal dictator is telling me I shouldn't have missed work.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THEN this morning, a bunch of really unsettling stuff happened at work, but since I would really like to not end up losing my job because I wrote about work, I will be cryptic.  Let's just say that people I liked don't work with me anymore and people I don't necessarily get along with as well still work here but have said interesting things about me and everything feels really shakey.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;em&gt;Sunny Jim is obviously not his real name.  His real name is Sneaky Pete.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115773718655212113?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115773718655212113/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115773718655212113&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115773718655212113'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115773718655212113'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/of-course-2-look-out-for-falling.html' title='of course 2:  look out for falling anvils'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115750613650095813</id><published>2006-09-05T19:15:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-05T19:28:56.516-06:00</updated><title type='text'>of course.</title><content type='html'>You know how sometimes you wake up and just can't get moving?  And, of course you have cramps and a migraine before you get going.  And, you get a little shampoo in your eye so you end up doing that little "I have shampoo in my eye and dammit it hurts" dance?  And then, your hair doesn't &lt;em&gt;quite&lt;/em&gt; work?  And then, while having your cereal for breakfast you break off another big chunk of your tooth that the dentist said she would fix but then she kept just having you back for appointments that had nothing to do with actually &lt;em&gt;fixing&lt;/em&gt; the damn tooth?  And then, of course, you're late heading out to work and you get cut off by some ass hat in a really big 3/4 ton truck?  And, then, of course because it's the Tuesday after the long weekend it feels like Monday and it's more of a Monday than any real Monday would be?  And, no matter how hard you try to get stuff done you never get to the first item on your to-do list?  And you start thinking that the only thing that would make the day any worse would be if you got dumped, you know if you had a boyfriend, which you don't so of course then you start thinking about that?  And then you start thinking that maybe you'll get through the day afterall so you leave at 5:30pm which is, of course, 30 minutes past the time you are supposed to work until?  And then, driving home your transmitter thing so you can listen to your ipod craps out and right about then you realize that the gauges are kind of flipping up and down and then suddenly they're not working at all and the vent fan isn't really doing anything either and it's about 30 degrees Celsius and it's pretty warm and you start to realize there's something wrong with your car?  And then, because you were passing it and it's close to your house you stop at a dealership that has a service shop and your car dies completely as you pull in?  And it's 6:02 and they just closed?  And you don't have your cell phone because the battery on IT died that morning?  And you have to walk 10 blocks in the 30 degree Celsius heat with the cramps and the migraine that never went away?  And you just feel like crying?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115750613650095813?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115750613650095813/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115750613650095813&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115750613650095813'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115750613650095813'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/of-course.html' title='of course.'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115712430213283175</id><published>2006-09-01T09:25:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-09-01T09:26:20.636-06:00</updated><title type='text'>work/dream/work</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;There should be a universal rule or principle or law that states that if a person, tired from a long week of pettiness and stress at work, finds themselves dreaming that they are &lt;/span&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;at work&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;, and not only that they find themselves at work, but they find themselves trying to sort out several extremely stressful situations at work, situations which are vivid and authentic enough that the person wakes up and still is trying to mentally problem solve while said person is getting ready for work and then driving to work, then that person should not have to actually &lt;/span&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;go &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;to work the next day.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;Don’t you think?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"&gt;(Do I win some sort of award for the longest run-on sentence in history?)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115712430213283175?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115712430213283175/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115712430213283175&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115712430213283175'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115712430213283175'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/09/workdreamwork.html' title='work/dream/work'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115505513294201014</id><published>2006-08-08T10:30:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-08-08T10:38:52.963-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Completely non-work-related question of the day*</title><content type='html'>When a person asks another person a question and that person answers the question precisely, promptly and correctly but somehow this answer is not good enough for the questioner so he asks it again several times and receives each time the same response worded in various ways so as to emphasize the meaning behind the words being used is it okay for the quesitonee to kick the questioner in the ass?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just wondering.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*Fine.  It's totally work related**&lt;br /&gt;**Please don't tell anyone at my work that I may have written (albeit in a very round-about way) about anyone at my work here.  I don't want to get dooced***.&lt;br /&gt;***See how cool I am with the blog-jargon there?&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115505513294201014?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115505513294201014/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115505513294201014&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115505513294201014'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115505513294201014'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/08/completely-non-work-related-question.html' title='Completely non-work-related question of the day*'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115160347304226585</id><published>2006-06-29T11:40:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-06-29T16:49:33.236-06:00</updated><title type='text'>just shoot me now...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;This is probably one of those times when it would be good if I drank. (I'll talk about that another time if that is confusing to anyone)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I need to find a new swim suit. I have a couple of old (like 8 – 10 years old) suits that still fit, but, I kind of wonder about the structural integrity of old spandex. I wouldn’t really want to discover that it breaks down over time &lt;em&gt;while&lt;/em&gt; wearing it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, here's the thing: It should come as no surprise that I’m not the girliest girl. I'm not into clothing, nails, hair. If it's clean, not too big, not too small, covers what needs covering and is comfortable, I consider it a success clothing-wise. My hair gets "done" (i.e. little bit of mousse. Quick upside down blow-dry. Little bit of spray. Done.) in the morning and by mid-afternoon it is frequently up in a ponytail because it's bugging me. My nails are short and not covered with any sort of color. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I don’t like shopping under ideal circumstances, so imagine how much I enjoy the swim suit shopping. Ugh. There are a couple of shopping scenarios that are sure to rip away any self-esteem I have saved up and swim suit shopping is one of them. (Formal-ish clothing shopping is another. As is undergarment shopping. And “work clothing” shopping, back when I needed a separate work wardrobe. Well, really, almost any clothing shopping.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I’m about to set off on a quest. I briefly looked for a swim suit the last time I ventured into a mall, but didn’t see anything I liked. I don’t have high hopes at this point. By the end of June (i.e. the beginning of summer), the stores are likely stocking parkas and long sleeved sweaters rather than summer items. I have a style in mind, which, generally will spell disaster. If I know in advance what I am looking for the shopping djinns will quickly hide all possible items.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Style, coverage, what kind of activity I might want to take part in while wearing the suit all have to be considered. I’ve been told a couple of times recently that I should wear a bikini. This advice was, of course, proffered by guys. (shocking). My response is always: “You know how some women wear a bikini and, while you admire their courage and ability to feel good about themselves, really, to be completely honest: they maybe shouldn’t be wearing a bikini in public.” I don’t say that because I think I’m overweight. I’m exactly the weight I need to be for my height. I just know that the weight (and its accompanying extra, er, area) isn’t all that evenly distributed and certain areas are better left covered. It might look okay from a certain angle if I don't breathe too much and don't really move. Call me crazy, but I don't know if that's the way I want to spend my precious summer water-vicinity time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I will go. I will search. I will likely return home empty-handed and will spend the evening trying to dig the last chocolate chip out of the bag.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wish me luck.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115160347304226585?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115160347304226585/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115160347304226585&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115160347304226585'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115160347304226585'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/06/just-shoot-me-now.html' title='just shoot me now...'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-115092267542299134</id><published>2006-06-21T14:38:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-06-21T14:44:35.443-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The following post is fictional and is not intended to reflect any real person or events*</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I have a bone to pick. With no one person in particular*. Well, that’s not necessarily completely true, but for the sake of not pointing fingers and/or getting myself in trouble, let’s pretend it’s not with any one person in particular.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here’s the thing: If you make plans with me, for any type of event or occasion, it is TOTALLY FINE with me if you need to cancel or postpone. I am fine with that and/or I will get over it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;However:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;IT IS NOT OKAY TO NOT TELL ME THAT YOU HAVE TO CANCEL.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seriously. It’s not like there are no means of communication available. You have cell phones, email, msn, land line phones, mental telepathy... I mean, there are ways and means of communication available to you. To just assume that I am not only going to catch on that you aren’t able to make it for lunch or the prom or whatever, but also that I would be fine with you just not showing up… I mean, seriously? Seriously.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also, it is REALLY not okay to turn it around on me and make me feel guilty for being disappointed that you cancelled without telling me**. I don’t care if the police needed to take your statement and you had to wait for the paramedics to tend to the more seriously injured before transporting you to the emergency room where there was such a log jam due to the 20 car pileup you were in that you had to wait for 5 hours just to get stitches and an xray and then you had to try to find a way to get home because your wallet was in your car and your car is at the bottom of the 20 car pileup***, you STILL should be able to find 2 minutes in there to call me and say “Hey, I’m not going to be able to make it for lunch.” To tell me that I should be more understanding is just going to PISS ME OFF.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That is all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;*If you happen to be reading this and feeling a twinge of guilt right now, you should maybe make it up to someone. If you happen to be reading this and you know ME and you are feeling a twinge of guilt, you should bring me, at the very least, a grande Starbucks tomorrow.&lt;br /&gt;**I realize that “cancelled without telling me” is just a euphemism for being stood up. It makes the bitter spinster girl feel better to say “cancelled without telling me” so shut up. You do NOT want me writing a rant about you and your correcting me and my euphemisms, do you?&lt;br /&gt;***If you were in a 20 car pileup and needed stitches and an xray, I would, of course, be so overwhelmingly relieved that you are alright when you call. But you still should at least attempt to call.&lt;/em&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-115092267542299134?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/115092267542299134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=115092267542299134&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115092267542299134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/115092267542299134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/06/following-post-is-fictional-and-is-not.html' title='The following post is fictional and is not intended to reflect any real person or events*'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114979665512825377</id><published>2006-06-08T21:47:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-06-08T21:53:59.256-06:00</updated><title type='text'>blatherliscious</title><content type='html'>I realized recently that I email my friend more often than I actually talk to her. Is that weird? Probably. Considering how close by she is and that we live in not only the same time zone but the same city. Often during the day something funny happens and the only person I can think of telling (or the only person I can tell) about it is her, so, the emails. The constant, blabby, rambling, sometimes whiny emails.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lucky her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THEN, I remembered that I started a blog where I can post all these things and share them with a wider audience. Cause if there is one thing the internets need more of, it’s blather: occasionally whiny, sometimes rambling, usually pointless blather.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Following are examples of stuff I email to my friend from work* because I just feel like I have to get it out and tell someone but which now I will maybe remember to put up here instead of always emailing her and she can read it here along with all of you. (Yes. YOU.)(It IS possible that there is someone reading this)(It is too.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-one of my customers has taken to calling me “Loriliscious”. While I was somewhat startled when this first happened, I’ve chosen to find it funny. Although, it is a bit (a lot) odd, since I’ve only seen/spoken to this customer 3 times and 2 of those times he called me “Loriliscious”. I haven’t had a nickname since … well, since my friend’s husband taught their daughters to call me “Gory”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-2 nights ago I dreamt that I was in a small hatchback car being driven around Los Angeles by &lt;a href="http://www.zach-braff.com/" target="_blank"&gt;Zach Braff&lt;/a&gt;**. We were driving on sidewalks and down staircases into the subway system a la the remake of &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0317740/"target="_blank"&gt;The Italian Job&lt;/a&gt;, except we were NOT in a Mini Cooper. In the dream I kept wondering where he was taking me and why we weren’t in a Mini Cooper. Eventually we decided to go to a movie. In Edmonton (I don’t live in Edmonton. I live in the much cooler, better city to the South: Calgary)(Hi friends and family in Edmonton). We drove into the waiting area for the movie, a vast space with cushy benches and natural light streaming through 20ft high windows. While we sat waiting for the movie to begin, I realized that my friend Julie was about to get married RIGHT THERE in the foyer of the movie theater! (It WAS a beautiful space). So, we found seats and enjoyed the lunch that was served as the wedding was taking place (what a good idea). (I never did see Julie, who, as far as I know is NOT getting married, in the dream.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-I think I’m going to do the &lt;a href="http://www.alsab.ca/events/bettysrun.aspx"target="_blank"&gt;Betty’s Run&lt;/a&gt; (walk portion) with my friend Julie (who is not getting married) this coming Sunday. I’ve seen the signs for the run, but didn’t ever realize there was a walk portion. (There is NO way I could run 5 miles.  I don't think I could run 5 miles if someone was chasing me.  With a gun.)  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Run raises money for ALS research. My dad had ALS and passed away in February 2003. I have wanted to get involved with this event for a few years now and just never have.  We're too late to raise donations really, but I do want to do this.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Thinking about the Betty’s Run/Walk must have put my dad into my brain. I dreamt last night that my parents were going to stop by my place. In the dream, just my dad came. He was walking around and laughing like there was nothing wrong. In the dream I thought “Oh, so this must take place before he gets sick” which was very strange. I had such a nice time in the dream with him. It made me sad and happy at the same time when I woke up. Strange.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*Obviously, there will be things that I won’t post here, you know, about work and people I know. Things that would get me in trouble. Or get me homeless. You know.&lt;br /&gt;**I don't know where the Zach Braff appearance came from. I like Scrubs and Garden State and all, but... I don't usually dream about celebrities. Other than the time I dreamt that this guy I was dating was really mad at me and was going to break up with me (which he did 2 days later btw) but I managed to convince him (in the dream) to not break up with me and suddenly he was Colin Firth. (Again, in that instance: I don't know why it was Colin Firth).&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114979665512825377?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114979665512825377/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114979665512825377&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114979665512825377'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114979665512825377'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/06/blatherliscious.html' title='blatherliscious'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114203085222430398</id><published>2006-06-07T21:45:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-06-08T21:58:36.613-06:00</updated><title type='text'>:) .   ???</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://www.beinggirl.com/en_US/happy/pages/index.jsp"target="_blank"&gt;Have a Happy Period&lt;/a&gt;, my ass…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ol&gt;&lt;li&gt;sharp stabbing pains in lower abdomen for a week leading up to the Happy Occasion.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;bloating&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;complete loss of control over skin/break outs&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;uncontrollable crying with little or no provocation&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;inability to put aside the ridiculous crap one must deal with on a daily basis at work which nearly leads to a loud confrontation which would certainly have resulted in either more crying or termination of employment or both&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;pain&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;aching back&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;lower abdominal pain&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;pain&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;being uncomfortable for as long as it takes for this to end.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ol&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114203085222430398?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114203085222430398/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114203085222430398&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114203085222430398'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114203085222430398'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/06/blog-post.html' title=':) .   ???'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114710230886856279</id><published>2006-05-08T09:22:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-05-08T09:31:48.890-06:00</updated><title type='text'>If I had a dollar...</title><content type='html'>... for every time someone at work has walked up, asking me "What do you know about this?" without actually showing me what "this" is, I wouldn't need to work.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;... for every time a particular person I encounter on a regular basis said "There's nothing worse than..." about a different thing each time, I could go to grad school and not worry about a loan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114710230886856279?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114710230886856279/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114710230886856279&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114710230886856279'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114710230886856279'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/05/if-i-had-dollar.html' title='If I had a dollar...'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114159461063069929</id><published>2006-03-05T14:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-03-05T14:36:50.653-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The post in which I will undoubtably come across as bitter, when really it should be read as cynical and possibly resigned</title><content type='html'>It is becoming increasingly clear to me that I need to start nurturing an affinity for cats.  Many, many cats.  For, you see, it is becoming equally clear to me that I am destined for spinsterhood, and, as we all know, the spinsters, they like their cats.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I need to look into a proper spinster wardrobe as well.  What are the crazy spinsters wearing these days?  Sensible shoes?  I have those.  Cardigans?  Well, I have some but I can easily knit some more.  Glasses?  Check.  Anything else?  I probably need to find a supplier of sensible slacks with pleats in the front.  And slash pockets.  I will also need to learn to tuck tissues into my sleeves for ready access and possibly I should find a chain for my glasses, even though I won't technically need it, since the glasses are not just for reading.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What else will I need in order to truly make the transition from single woman in her 30’s to crazy spinster lady?  I already knit, so that’s one thing out of the way.  I think that cat thing will be the most problematic.  (and the pleat-front slacks, but I can probably work my way around that).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What brings on this spinsterhood preparation?  The usual:  I just found out that a guy I had dated briefly had been, well, less than 100% truthful with me (which, deep down, I knew) and not only that, but he's getting married soon.  Whereas I spend most days/evenings at home alone with my knitting and my TV.  It really is a shame that I can't stand cats.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My friend (who, bless her heart wanted to go find this guy and hit him)("bless her heart", see, I'm picking up the spinster slang already)(I would have loved to see her go after him.  She's about 5'2" and he's probably 6'2") &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  My friend and I were joking about the fact that almost any guy who has ever taken me out on a date has soon after either gotten back together with his ex or has met the woman that he ends up marrying. (Actually, several times they met the girl &lt;em&gt;while&lt;/em&gt; we were seeing each other.  Once, the guy met the girl while we were &lt;em&gt;on a date&lt;/em&gt;.) We were saying that I should start a dating service:  Take me out to a movie and/or dinner and you will find your soul-mate.  It won't be &lt;em&gt;me&lt;/em&gt;, but you will find &lt;em&gt;your&lt;/em&gt; soul-mate.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, now I'm at home, alone, knitting and watching hockey and trying to work my head around the fact that I need to start collecting cats &lt;em&gt;soonish&lt;/em&gt; if I'm going to qualify as a crazy old spinster lady.  Is there some sort of committee that I need to apply to in order to be certified as a crazy old spinster lady?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114159461063069929?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114159461063069929/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114159461063069929&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114159461063069929'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114159461063069929'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/03/post-in-which-i-will-undoubtably-come.html' title='The post in which I will undoubtably come across as bitter, when really it should be read as cynical and possibly resigned'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114154023191777042</id><published>2006-03-04T23:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-03-04T23:30:33.006-07:00</updated><title type='text'>80's Teen Movies</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091790/"target="_blank"&gt;Pretty in Pink&lt;/a&gt; is on TV.  This movie instantly takes me back to High School.  (also:  &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094006/?fr=c2l0ZT1kZnx0dD0xfGZiPXV8cG49MHxrdz0xfHE9c29tZSBraW5kIG9mIHdvbmRlcmZ1bHxmdD0xfG14PTIwfGxtPTUwMHxjbz0xfGh0bWw9MXxubT0x;fc=1;ft=20"target="_blank"&gt;Some Kind of Wonderful&lt;/a&gt;, &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088128/?fr=c2l0ZT1kZnx0dD0xfGZiPXV8cG49MHxrdz0xfHE9c2l4dGVlbiBjYW5kbGVzfGZ0PTF8bXg9MjB8bG09NTAwfGNvPTF8aHRtbD0xfG5tPTE_;fc=1;ft=13"target="_blank"&gt;Sixteen Candles&lt;/a&gt; et al)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing about these movies was that they gave HOPE to the quirky, wierd, misfits.  The heriones of these movies were NOT the rich girls, or the popular girls, or the really well adjusted girls.  They were creative, individual, strong, but not like everyone else.  They all got the guy.  The guy who was Popular, Cool, Handsome, and often Rich.  (well, except in Some Kind of Wonderful.  In that one the GUY was wierd and creative and he almost got the Rich Popular girl but then the wierd misfit girl got the wierd misfit guy and ...  never mind.  Take that one off the list.  No, wait.  Leave it, I love that movie...)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My point (I know, shocking, I have a point) is this:  In real life, the quirky, creative, wierd misfit girl does NOT get the cool, handsome popular guy.  Or, maybe they do and I'm just a little beat up emotionally today and Pretty in Pink on TV makes me think that it isn't fair because I wanted to make my own clothes and have the cool popular rich guy fall in love with me and I wanted a friend like Ducky who would sing to me and care about me and pine away over me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sigh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114154023191777042?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114154023191777042/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114154023191777042&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114154023191777042'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114154023191777042'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/03/80s-teen-movies.html' title='80&apos;s Teen Movies'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114115221737820134</id><published>2006-02-28T11:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-02-28T12:36:45.923-07:00</updated><title type='text'>One of "Those" Days</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;There are many different variations on “one of those days”, e.g.:&lt;br /&gt;-the “Monday”&lt;br /&gt;-the “Wednesday but all day long you think it’s Friday so you’re feeling kinda good about things until you realize it’s Wednesday and then it sucks”&lt;br /&gt;-the “starts out pretty good but then things snowball and, even though there is no one thing wrong, it gets pretty overwhelming by 3 pm"&lt;br /&gt;-the "sure it's clear and sunny out, but the news just said there is a giant asteroid heading right towards Earth and, now that they mention it, what is that thing in the sky?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I’m having one of “those” days. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The day I’m having today seems to fit most snugly into the second last one. No one thing has gone wrong, just a bunch of little things snowballing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Speaking of snowballing… Yesterday morning started out at -13C, then yesterday afternoon was +9C, then yesterday evening was -13C. Today it’s snowing. And snowing. And, wait, yes, snowing. Stupid weather. I need a pair of &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://snowshoe.com/index.cfm?pageid=56"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;these&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, okay, that’s the first item on the list of what’s-going-wrong today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second item: I had a dream last night that left me feeling really unsettled, but I don’t really remember the dream at all, just that I woke up feeling uneasy. I know that there was someone in the dream that I was happy to see but that by the end of it I was feeling really not-so-happy. (What? There’s a word for that? Sad? Angry? Malcontented?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Third item: I got to work and a friend was on MSN so I said hi and commented on something we had been talking about. Said “friend” (who deserves quotation marks now, since it's one of "those" days and they contributed to it) reacted as though I had suggested that they should rip out their kidneys (both) and have them couriered to me, posthaste. Which, frankly, was an extreme over-reaction. I don’t like starting the day with a misunderstanding and then with pissy-ness between friends/acquaintances/co-workers/etc. Later in the day, after enough coffee and/or food, sure, I can handle it. Just not at 8:05am. Please.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fourth item: The weather sucks. I know that I mentioned it already, but seriously. Why can’t we have our precipitation spread out over the whole season like other, civilized climates? Why must we get it all in a compressed and &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.cbc.ca/story/canada/national/2005/06/20/altaflood050620.html"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;overwhelming&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt; format?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fifth item: It’s February 28. Part of my job involves monthly invoicing for rentals. I have about 15 invoices that should be dated the 29th, the 30th, and the 31st. Now I have to do math, re-assign invoicing dates, and, did I mention the math? Did I mention how the math and I are not the best-of-friends? We don’t have movie nights or talk about boys or anything. We don’t get along. I mean, not even for a strained conversation as we wait for a cup of coffee if we happen to be in the lunch room at the same time. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Then, add to all the other items the fact that all day long I see planes landing at the airport and I'm stuck here, and it's SNOWING (I know, I told you already, I'm sorry).  A friend and I have this on-going joke that we're going to take off and try to catch a flight somewhere warm.  Up until now it's always been a "Haha, wouldn't that be funny?" but today I'm trying to figure out how long it will take to get my passport renewed.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;However, &lt;a href="http://www.nhl.com/"&gt;NHL&lt;/a&gt; starts up again tonight, (rumor has it the Flames game is on TV!!), I have a &lt;a href="http://www.cocobrooks.ca/"&gt;Coco Brooks&lt;/a&gt;* pizza thawing in my fridge for supper (now I'm really hungry), and ...  well... that's it for the plus side at the moment.  But, at least it's not one of those days with the asteroid...  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;*&lt;em&gt;if you live in or near Calgary and you haven't tried Coco Brooks, what are you doing reading this?  Go there NOW.  So good!!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114115221737820134?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114115221737820134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114115221737820134&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114115221737820134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114115221737820134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/02/one-of-those-days.html' title='One of &quot;Those&quot; Days'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114091659551163082</id><published>2006-02-25T17:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-02-25T18:16:36.616-07:00</updated><title type='text'>E-Friends</title><content type='html'>I have this friend.  Well, maybe "friend" is an exaggeration of the relationship.  Let's say he's this guy I know.  Sort of.  (I mean, he's definately a guy.  The "sort of" applied to the "I know" part of that sentence)  For the last few months, we have been having an e-flirty sort of email and msn "thing".  It started with emails from him about innocuous subjects and these would go back and forth for a while, with the flirtation building up slowly.  For about a month the back-and-forth emailing went on all day long at work (shh... ).  Then, after the flirtation had sort of escalated, he started to cut back on the emailing.  There are still times when we have back-and-forth days, but not very often anymore.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The funny thing is, when he comes on msn in the evening or weekends, if I say anything to him he answers once or twice and then quickly goes offline.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's like having a friendship (a real face-to-face friendship) with a guy tank after there has been flirtation.  Except that it's all virtual.  I don't know if he's worried that I thought there was more to it than what it was (which is often what is going on when guys are that way about a real face-to-face situation), but the complete unwillingness to communicate with me outside of the workday hours kind of makes me laugh.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I enjoyed the email conversations, it gave me something to do at work while wading through ever building mountains of paper, but I never for one minute thought there was more there.  Boys.  Dumb.  Really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This experience has really magnified something in my life, however.  It has been a long time since I have had good guy friends in my life.  Or any guy friends.  Or guys for that matter.  Most of my co-workers are guys, but I don't think that counts, since we have no contact aside from work.  The last time I had a good guy friend, the friendship sort of ended when he announced one day that he didn't think we could ever be anything more than just friends.  Which came as an enormous surprise to me, since I didn't realize he was considering the issue.  Also, ironically it was HIM who scaled back the actual friendship and eventually dropped out of my life.  Good thing we WERE "just friends".  haha.  hmm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, what am I trying to say?  Not much.  Just that I miss having guy friends.  I tend to find it easier and more comfortable to be friends with guys:  none of the competitive, snarky type of stuff that can happen with women friends.  Plus, they don't roll their eyes if I want to watch the game rather than go out shopping.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114091659551163082?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114091659551163082/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114091659551163082&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114091659551163082'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114091659551163082'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/02/e-friends.html' title='E-Friends'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-114081252961897581</id><published>2006-02-24T13:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-02-24T13:28:04.813-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Close Talker</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;It could truthfully be said that I have some personal space issues.  Specifically, when someone I don’t know/don’t know well/don’t want to be close to is in my personal space.  Even more specifically when said person does not get the body language indicators that they are too close (i.e. if I take a big step backwards, maybe don’t match me step for step.)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;Case in point:  We have a new guy working in our warehouse.  He seems like he’s an okay enough guy (compared to some of the warehousemen we’ve had), but he is sort of a close-talker.  (He also stares and interrupts conversations that he has no part nor business in but that’s a different rant).  Or maybe it’s just with me.  I don’t know.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;Every time I go into the warehouse to get something for a customer, he tries to engage me in conversation, and he stands WAY too close.  Generally when I go back into the warehouse, I’m in a hurry.  I have a customer on hold, or standing at my desk.  Also I’ve been doing my job for 15 months.  I know my job.  I know the equipment.  If I need assistance I ask.  I don’t chit-chat normally, much less when I’m in a hurry.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;I could put up and possibly get used to the constant attempts at small talk, if only he wasn’t such a close talker!!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;Did I mention the strong, bad aftershave?  No?  Oh.  Yes.  Added to close-talking and not reading body language cues, there is an almost visible aura of aftershave around him.  Not “oh that guy smells great” aftershave/cologne, but “Oh, that must have been on sale at 7-11” aftershave.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;Now, mind you, I much MUCH prefer the attempt at smelling nice for work.  The guy we had before this one was also a close talker, but he was a non-showerer, nor was he much of a tooth-brusher.  However, I tend to sneeze a lot around strong cologne/perfume, and added to the uncomfortable attempts to chat, and the fact that I’m in a hurry, and the fact that he is just this side of creepy (did I mention that?  No?  He has a tendency to walk up behind me.  When I’m bending down to get something or to write while standing.  shudder), it’s kind of, well, unsettling.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;So, where was I going with this?  Oh, Yeah.  I wish there were some way to strongly and in no uncertain terms explain the boundaries of your personal space to people who don't get it.  Other than just shoving them or telling them "I can't stand it with you being so close to me!!!!" and running away.  You know.  Maybe some way that isn't so, well, off-putting... &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-114081252961897581?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/114081252961897581/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=114081252961897581&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114081252961897581'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/114081252961897581'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/02/close-talker.html' title='Close Talker'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-113657142267560412</id><published>2006-01-06T11:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-01-06T11:17:05.583-07:00</updated><title type='text'>If you dream it, it will happen.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I dream alot. I go in spurts where I have really vivid dreams that I remember every night for weeks on end. I have dreams about people I know sometimes. People I haven't seen in a really long time. People I don't expect to see. Then, a day, a week, 2 weeks later, I will run into those people much to everyone's surprise. &lt;em&gt;(I also have dreams that combine every single piece of information from the day previous, but that's another story.)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first time I remember this happening I had a dream about this guy, Chris, who had dumped me rather unceremoniously (another long story for another day) but I hadn't seen him for a few years. As far as I knew we lived 2 or 3 provinces apart, and I wasn't in contact with any of the people I knew when I knew him. I dreamed that he was in with my circle of friends and I got really angry at him and stabbed him. The next weekend, I was with my group of friends in a parking lot waiting for some other friends to show up. One of the girls wasn't going to join us and I asked why. One of the group said "Her friend Chris is in town." Somehow, I knew immediately who they were talking about, even though I didn't have any reason to know. I asked where Chris was from and they said the name of some small town, which happened to be the same small town where the Chris I knew was from. We figured out, finally, that it &lt;em&gt;was&lt;/em&gt; the same guy. Everyone was suitably freaked out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another notable dream-reality sequence happened when I was living and working in Pakistan. One night this guy I had known in college was in one of my dreams. I don't remember what was happening or anything, just that it was strange that he would be there. The next morning I was walking to the school building (where I worked) with one of the students. I saw a group of visitors and from the back one of them looked like the guy who had been in my dream. I told the student about the dream and how strange it was that this guy looked so much like the guy in the dream. (btw: I had gone to college at a small school in Saskatchewan, Canada. I didn't have any co-workers/aquaintences in Pakistan from my area of the country.) He turned around and came over to me. "Lori?" he asked, as I gaped in astonishment...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing about these dreams is that now, when I have a dream about someone I know/haven't seen/would like to see I spend the next few weeks looking around for them. Sometimes those dreams make me happy that it was just a dream and I spend the next few weeks hoping I don't run into the person, but more often the dream makes me sad because it was just a dream and I hope that I do see them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-113657142267560412?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/113657142267560412/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=113657142267560412&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/113657142267560412'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/113657142267560412'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2006/01/if-you-dream-it-it-will-happen.html' title='If you dream it, it will happen.'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20045524.post-113511328051167411</id><published>2005-12-20T14:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-12-20T14:14:40.513-07:00</updated><title type='text'>not another blog......  do we have to read it????</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;Why another blog? Why? Aren't there enough of them in the world already?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I already have a crafty/knitting blog, which I enjoy doing but I have a tendency to want to ramble on and tell stories and sometimes I think that the people who read the knitting blog really could not care less about the crazy people I seem to encounter or the wacko who cut me off in traffic. So, since I like the writing and I like the telling my long-winded stories, I decided to start another blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;DEDICATED SOLELY TO THE TELLING OF POTENTIALLY LONG-WINDED ANECDOTE/STORIES AND THE REALLY REALLY LONG RUN-ON SENTENCE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, that's what you can expect. Good times. Hope to see you soon!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(oh, yeah, I will also pledge to use WAY more exclamation marks than is necessary and I will promise to interupt my stories with asides in parentheses, just like this)(don't you feel better now, knowing what to expect?). &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20045524-113511328051167411?l=this1time.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/feeds/113511328051167411/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20045524&amp;postID=113511328051167411&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/113511328051167411'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/20045524/posts/default/113511328051167411'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://this1time.blogspot.com/2005/12/not-another-blog-do-we-have-to-read-it.html' title='not another blog......  do we have to read it????'/><author><name>Lori</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09114062607610314946</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
