So, I wrote down (and photographed) the contents of my bag!
Last week’s New Yorker
Violet sunglasses
A few Equal packets
LG Plum cell phone
Card case for business cards and coupons
Make-up bag (its contents could be a-whole-nother photo)
iPod Classic
Notebook, two pens, Chapstick, and C.G. Bigelow Menthe Lip Shine
Sephora by OPI nail polish in Caffeine Fix
Purple wallet
Inside a royal blue hobo
Happy now?
I’m a needle-phobe.
I was a Ranger at Camp Jewell the summer before I started college and the campus health center came calling. They sent notice in the form of a blank immunization record: I was due for a tetanus booster.
The camp nurse shuttled me off to the local doctor. I accompanied a nine-year-old with her arm in a sling and a fourteen-year-old with a head cold who never lowered the hood on his sweatshirt. I was the stand-in counselor, responsible for the kids’ IDs, paperwork, and behavioral supervision. That I just so happened to require my own medical attention was gravy.
The doctor took the kids first, leaving me to sweat it out in the waiting room, surrounded by trucks with three wheels and a Fisher-Price animal sounds spinner toy that was stuck on the sheep’s baaa. The Colebrook Family Practice collection of communal hand-me-downs. I sorted pieces of mixed-up puzzles into their rightful boxes, pretending it could distract me from the dreadful needle anticipation.
By the time I got my turn in the exam room, I’d gotten myself all worked up. The doctor opened the door and my chin began to tremble. He snapped my college admission health form to his clip board and I flinched. He prepared the syringe and I started to cry . . . and continued to cry as he administered the jab . . . and continued to cry as he applied a bandage and I threaded my sore arm back into the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
The doctor made his notes and signed my form and stepped out of the room. Before the door swung closed behind him, he glanced over his shoulder at me. I had blotted my tears with a shredded tissue and was fanning my face with both hands, hoping to look less pitiful when I faced the campers outside.
“I guess we don’t have to worry about you shooting up,” he said.
It was the first and last thing he said to me.
He was dead on, though. Intravenous drug abusers must be on crack.
Wait, is crack an intravenous drug?
I couldn’t believe what a challenge it was to find a photographic image of a Santa Claus hat with a transparant background to edit on to the heads of family, friends, pets, or celebrities in digital pictures, so I’d like to share the one that I created for just that purpose.
If you liked 2 1/2-months-to-New-Year’s-Resolutions Resolutions (which has been updated again, of late), then you will love Oh.! And not just because it is a proper noun with built-in punctuation. I’m completely crazy about that stuff.
Number 15 could be me.
“I always make this mistake.
When I start a new job I hold off asking questions for just too long.
Just untill it will be really embarrassing to ask the question and it will revile that I have just been guessing untill now [sic].”
It’s not me, though. That’s someone else’s mistake, set free.
When I think about a mistake that I have made from which I’d like to be set free and from which someone else could learn, I’m like, “how much time have you got? I feel like, “where, oh where to begin.” But the point is: mistakes are meant to be made. Oh. liberates the mistake makers by casting them out there on the internet “for all to see and learn.”
The first lesson: everybody screws up.
The second lesson: to err is not to fail.
I appreciate Number 1.
“Here’s my mistake:
I accidentally sent my cv to an ex-boyfriend while sending out work applications.
Just a blank email which my cv attached to it.
. . . to which he driely [sic] replied, “oh, you’ve been up to a lot.”
The ex-boyfriend? Probably didn’t know that he received an email that had been mistakenly sent. I like to imagine him, nostalgic, reflecting for a moment and thinking, “man, maybe I made a mistake when I gave her up.”
Oh. is part experiment in honesty and part community blog. The spelling mistakes in each entry give it a performance art effect, too.
Thanks to Mackin Ink via Design Crush.
You might say my run for daily posts in November ended with an incapacitating muscle cramp. Ouch.
I had about two hours to recover this morning. My ride to the airport didn’t arrive until 11, but I got out of bed at 8 because I so often leave for work while my roommate is eating breakfast and watching Saved by the Bell, and I wanted time to experience that for myself. After Zack Morris got in and out of a bind involving Mr. Belding, a girl, phone impersonations, and detention, I took a hot, hot shower and finished packing for San Antonio.
This is what I played on iTunes while I tried to pick out four days worth of wardrobe appropriate for Texas in November:
I Feel The Earth Move by Carol King
Extraordinary by Liz Phair
You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC
Delicious by Semisonic
Don’t Phunk with My Heart by Black Eyed Peas
By the time I came across 2 1/2-months-to-New-Year’s-Resolutions Resolutions through Design Crush, it was almost half a month down, two to go, nearing the end of October. It remindes me so much of the “It’s okay . . . ” pages in Glamour, my favorite magazine pages of all time, the pages that single handedly lead me to choose that magazine over all the others when I’m in line at the airport or under the helmet dryer at a salon.
Unlike all the placid allowances made by Condé Nast, some of the resolutions pinch me. 13. Remember, love doesn’t find you on its own. Oh. 31. Don’t waste another second. Please? Fine, fine. Since you asked nicely. I’ll try to try.
Just over the cusp and into November, the day after a call was made for our resolutions, new updates ceased. Did the project run out of steam? Funds? Resolve?
This is the resolution I submitted:
Maybe not the metaphor one would expect. Then again, less or lessened volume isn’t always a bad thing, metaphorically speaking. And literally, it’s almost certainly a good idea. Turn the volume down, please. Protect your hearing. Be kind to your ears.
My very first online identity was JKBosco. Bosco was my cat’s name. In this case, J/K didn’t mean “just kidding,” and they didn’t stand for “Jack’s kiss,” which is what every girl in the eighth grade wanted to talk about after seeing Titanic (the first time, the second time, the twelfth time). J and K were my favorite letters of the alphabet.
You know, George Eastman formulated the name of his camera company based on his favorite letter of the alphabet.
Titanic was on TV over the weekend. I’ve learned to turn it off right around the 94-minute mark, which is when this colossal crag creeps out of the darkness and wields its bitter chill at the young lovers, Jack and Rose. It’s hard to believe that I sat through this movie in the theater on four different occasions, and then went home, logged in to an AOL chatroom, and engaged in serious discussion and analysis as JKBosco.
