Tagged

Silly blog culture abounds as I find myself tagged. This means you get more useless information about me, but this time in convenient, numbered format!

I am to give you 6 facts about me and then tag 6 bloggers. I'm pretty sure Bill Gates will share his fortune with me if I follow through. That, or 66 thugs will slash my achilles tendons when I go out to my car some dark evening if I don't...and that kid with cancer won't get his heart transplant.



1--My guilty pleasure is Hilary Duff. Can't say I like her that much, but I'm so intrigued by her since the Lizzie McGuire days that I have to stop and watch whenever she appears. You can blame a lot on the pre-teen girls you babysit.

2--My impossible dream is to sing on Broadway.

3--I once attempted to try out for The Bachelor. I still wish for the opportunity to show up in front of Mr. Desperate in something with sleeves and with a personality and see how fast I get kicked off. You know the other girls would HATE me while they secretly wanted to be me. Modest is hottest!

4--I was meant to surf and play volleyball...I just came to the wrong climate. And body.

5--I have a super-human sense of smell. Cinnamon, vanilla, and lemon are my favorites.

6--I'm attracted to skinny guys. Nerdy ones, usually. Do you think this is just a reflection of my desire to be skinny? To pass skinny genes on to my kids? Do I enjoy being the bigger half? I'll never figure it out.



I tag..hmmm...do I even know 6 bloggers? Lohra, Shells, Kaydi, Shan D., Feline, and Natty.

Angels in the End Zone

It was half-time, or thereabouts.
I was getting slightly distracted—which isn’t all that surprising, considering I become bored quickly when I completely lack the talent necessary to be competitive. The score was 3-1. My team was winning, no thanks to me. I was doing a great deal of running around, however (because when you’re unable to catch a football you just keep busy by running around), so I’d already removed several layers of clothing. With just a thin pair of gloves on, I felt a new surge of energy, a desire to attempt contact with the ball. I made myself wide open—not difficult, considering most people had forgotten I was even there—and motioned to Laura to pass me the ball.

She fired; I missed. Slippery little bugger. We repeated this killer play three times before I decided to remember that I have no talent and begged everyone not to throw me the football ever again.
“Why wasn’t I born with athletic abilities?” I asked myself in agony. The wide, unfriendly sky gazed down on me as if to say, “Because you were given such an abundance of ugly face-making abilities.” Not the most comforting, though I agree that ugly faces can be useful. But why couldn’t I be like Laura, who caught numerous passes, scoring touchdowns and gaining rapport with fellow players? Or like Gretch, who pretty much tackled anything that moved?

I recommenced running around aimlessly, occasionally two-hand touching anybody I saw in case they might be involved in the game more than I was. When the captains declared that we wouldn’t call the game until one of the teams reached four points, I groaned audibly. “Can’t we just have a dance off?” I asked, in a pitiful attempt to gain some of my self-respect back. Alas, the game continued.

And then it happened.

My team had inched through the snow and ice toward the end zone—again, no thanks to me. We lined up for our fourth down, last-ditch attempt. I trucked it toward the end zone and found myself alone. I made eye contact with Oh Captain, My Captain, and I saw that mad gleam in his eye that could mean only one thing: He intended to pass it to me. Panic seized my body and I meant to scream, “NOOO! Throw it to anybody but me!” but shear terror pinched off my vocal chords and I just stared stupidly at that pointy, spiraling, missile of death coming at me as if it meant to seal my humiliation with a pigskin kiss…I think I closed my eyes…and awoke to find myself tackled by my teammates and a hundred screaming fans. I looked at my hands and was startled to see a football clutched therein.

How did this happen? Well, I’d like to bear my testimony of miracles. Happy, happy miracles. It’s not every day yours truly has the pleasure of making the game-winning touchdown.
Next time I’m shooting for MVP.

Blog Wars Revisited

My dear readers, be thou not distressed.

Some of you think I've died. I assure you, I have not. Others think I've become apathetic to the cause of blogging. Again, this is not so. And may I most vehemently protest those who think I've been cowed by the presence of other, clever-at-best, cocksure bloggers-To this group I simply ask, where is your faith? Is there not just reward for patience, for hope, for holding out indefinitely for that which you know is right and good?

I am here to tell you I have not given up on blogging. I will never let another blogger think they've won this war.

Rest your weary hearts and look forward with joy to the time when I shall post again. Twill be soon!