I'm all about spreading the linky love. I also encourage comments, especially when leaving them on other blogs. So when I get tripped up while trying to leave a comment on someone's post, whether the page just doesn't let me comment or it fails to register my comment, I get a little disgruntled and a little worried that the blogger will be able to see that I WAS there, but rudely took off without acknowledgement. So, I try to come back to the site later that day to get my comment "read", but often still fail. And then I worry some more that the blogger saw that I was there repeatedly and now thinks that I am stalking her or him. Which I kind of am, but I don't want it to SEEM that way.
I was commenting on The Un Mom about her post relating to oranges and mentioned how I live in Florida within miles of a major orange grove, yet buy my oranges from California and then told her I was going to steal my own comment and post it here. So, here it is. (Just stating the facts, folks.)
On that note, do you ever feel like your comments make better posts than your actual posts do? You'll write a comment that cracks you up and even as you're clicking the "post comment" button, you're wondering if you should copy and paste it elsewhere... like your own site? If I am alone in this, I have a very big burden to shoulder. As well as a big ego.
Why is it that a child, quick as lightning, can race through Target with nary a thought for her mother or an oncoming shopping cart and run circles around the same mother while at checkout become as slow as drying concrete when walking back to their vehicle in the parking lot? While other cars are coming. And the sun is going down. And time is speeding up as the child, in direct contrast, is slowing down. Is there a law of physics I'm missing here?
Even when Grey's Anatomy was good, you know, before it went all "Let's do a story on one of the docs suffering PTSD and strangling the other doctor he's sleeping with while he's having an episode and NOT CALL THE COPS IN TO AT LEAST MAKE A FREAKING CAMEO because losing credibility is much less expensive than paying some actors scale.", yeah, before that, something always bothered me about the show. I just couldn't quite put my finger on it until it was being strangled in Thursday's episode. Christina. By all accounts in the show, Christina is Jewish. That nibbles at my thoughts since names like Christina, Mary, and Teresa (with an "h" or without) rarely ever go to Jewish girls. It's far too indicative of its "Christian" roots. Not complaining. Just doesn't ring true with me. Tis all. (Yes, I know. We did quirks last week. Folks, if I were to leave my quirks out of my blog, there would be no Sprite's Keeper.) (And that would be sad.) (For me.) (Who happens to like run-on sentences and trains of thought that always jump the track.) (And excessive use of parentheses.)
When I was a lowly Criminal Justice student, my friend and I would sit for hours over coffee profiling everyone around us. While you may be judging me for this, and also feeling guilty because you do the same thing (yes you do), we at least had an excuse, homework. Yup, we were told to profile everyone around us and come up with 3 character studies based on random people. Another homework assignment was to commit the perfect crime. On paper, of course. My CJ friend and I would have a blast ripping each other's crime profiles and M.O. to shreds and casting reasonable doubt on the other's alibis. The only thing she was ever able to gut me on was my scene. I never had a good scene to mislead the forensics. Until this weekend. While getting my hair cut, I looked down at the considerable pile of hair forming beneath me and it struck me. There is a PLETHORA of DNA within a small space. It would take forensics MONTHS to comb through and even determine a list of suspects based off of hair and nail clippings alone. I wonder if my teacher would still accept late submissions. And if he'll remember who I am this late in the game. Or even if he's still alive. (He was really old.)
Oy, that last one may be submitted as evidence should I ever truly go off the deep end.
When Sprite was first born, I was one of oh, every other mother in the world who fawned over her newborn's features, from the wisps of downy hair tracking her hairline down to the slender tiny feet with little dots for toes and the...um... oh my, what the hell are those? "Kid has some ragged toenails." I waited the required timeframe before I attacked them with a clipper, but Damn! From the second she left the womb and I caught a look of those gnarly nailbeds, I wanted to ask my OB to cut me open again and make sure she didn't slash me up on the inside. (Makes me think back to those questions I had for the doctor during my prenatal appointments. "Is heartburn supposed to feel this bad?" "Are my feet going to deflate after I give birth?" "Why does it feel like I'm being carved from within?" "Did you check for a switchblade during the last ultrasound?") Her feet have gone from slender and long to Fred Flintstone-esque and her nails look no better. This may be my subconsious reasoning for why I buy her closed-toe shoes.
For more randomness like what you just experienced here, or even better than what you've experienced here, just don't tell me it's better than what you've experienced here for you'll be breaking a very carefully built bubble of happiness that has taken me YEARS to build, although it may be good to burst that bubble since everyone needs a good dose of reality once in a while, but I had some reality just a week ago, so I'm full on that right now, thanks, but if you would like more randomness other than the random lead-in I just subjected you to, click on over to Keely's House of Pain, A.K.A. The Un Mom for laughs. She won't let you down like I did. Just don't tell me I did.
Yes, I'm done.