Know Your Exits--first 16 of 102.

102 things. Not all at once. That'd be ridiculous. But my blog's gotten 102 facebook fans--surprisingly so--and I don't particularly care for round numbers, so 102 it is. It's 3 more than Fifty Cent has problems. Not all 102 in this post. Don't despair.

I wouldn't put even the most dedicated amongst you through that.

1. The poll-----> has closed. Turns out very few of you know what I collect; I've decided to make it an interesting 'reveal', so it'll be tomorrow or the next day--gonna take some time to assemble them together for a photo. Thanks to those of you who did know but didn't vote. And, to those of you whose integrity I tested by straight up telling you the business, I don't know whether to feel honored you didn't use the information or slightly piqued at the thought you didn't care enough to reload the page and click.
2. I tested Job first. "Sweetie, you remember what I collect, right? You've known for over a year and a half...". . . BIG ELLIPSIS. . . "Um, silver?". Whoa. I will forego the opportunity to make a JUDAS triple entendre here (quadruple if you deem the recounting of this anecdote a betrayal on my part, of him. I don't.)
3. I can not, ever, not in a vehicle, nor on foot with an mp3 player, nor in front of my computer's music library, listen to the very end of a song. I will hit "Next" or "Forward" two SECONDS before it ends. This is true especially of mixes or CD's where I know what song to expect. I imagine this isn't a phenomenon that's limited to me, but with the aforementioned, when I hear that song in a different context, or playlist, or on the radio or in someone else's car, on a soundtrack, etc, I will still anticipate the beginning of the song I've come to connote as being 'next'. It's precious.
4. There is nothing particularly special about me. I want that as a disclaimer. But, I have always felt like there are two very, very irreconciliable strains of personality within me. I trace my recognition of this back to 7th grade Industrial Arts class with Mr. Lew Blonde, who has since passed away of Lou Gherig's Disease, tragically. He asked us, as a segue project into real building, to create a board game that depicted 'who we were'. I constructed a rather elaborate, colorful, cardboard (not the best call) game, the goal of which I can liken only to something like Candyland. There were tons of obstacles, wheels to spin, cards to choose, etc, but only two possible outcomes. 1. You became a social worker--or--2. You became a CEO. Someone get out a DSMIV and tell me THAT wasn't particularly revealing. I'm shocked I wasn't booted out of the gifted program and institutionalized within twenty four hours. I wasn't the greatest in that class. My next project? A huge CD holder for my mother, because she's big into rock music (I had massive posters of Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, The Beatles, etc on my bedroom walls as a little kid), which she used as a glorified 'mail sorter'. Why? Because I failed to measure the dimensions of a compact disc before spending three weeks making a c.d. holder. That's right. I'm naturally inclined to woodworking...Anyway, my original point is that at various points in my life, this truth about myself, that there are almost two me's, looms more largely than at others. So I've decided to just look at it head on, as opposed to peripherally. It's interesting to think that 11 year old me characterized myself as just two fused pieces of Jim and Judy.Without betraying anything personal about either of my parents, both of whom mean the world to me, and are good friends to one another (it's at this juncture I realize perhaps you don't know they're divorced...now you do--and that knowledge is helpful because perhaps you understand the fact that they're good friends through a much different prism than you would if you assumed they were happily married, or married at all), I don't think it likely I'll be a social worker or CEO. I'll leave you with a visual that I don't think either of them would mind me sharing: Their ELEVEN INCH height difference is emblematic of how incredibly, incredibly at odds some of the most fundamental things about them are. I'm blessed to have such a rich background from which to draw. But perhaps it's valuable to think of myself as entirely separate, too. They're both unfailingly supportive of me.
5. I wonder pretty often whether Christy has dreams. And if she does, what they're of and whether she's normal in them.
6. I believe in one God. Lately I've realized that my tendency to people please or treat delicately other people's beliefs has done a disservice to a) my own faith; b) that person's understanding of who I am, and consequently mine of them; c) my God. I don't believe in the concepts of 'the universe' or 'the gods (lower case g) of...".I believed, have believed mistakenly, that because I'm not always prepared to stump or speak intelligently about my faith, let alone witness, that it's best to keep my mouth shut. If this seems self-righteous or ignorant or not well-supported, that's probably my due. It's not something I've given enough serious thought to fleshing out yet.
7. Blood is not (necessarily) thicker than water. Sometimes water has serious serious plasma. Even platelets. You can stand on one side of a ten inch thick steel door, separated from blood, and pound on the door, hoping for the smallest of crumbs, and despite getting nothing, continue to do so until your own hands bleed. It makes no sense. Some of the most special, important people in my life are 'water', not 'blood'. Some of the relatives I am most close to are cousins who I did not know weren't my blood cousins until we were old enough to grasp the concept that when we were infants, my grandmother had married their grandfather. He was one of the most influential people in my life. And the abundance of water people (now I feel like I'm going Native American here, this is like a poorly written book report) in my life who've emerged in the past year alone as huge supports? Is baffling. And wonderful.
8. I saw a bumper sticker today (adorning one of the most pimp Jeeps I've ever seen--I regret not having a photo for you) that read "Where the HELL is WALL DRUG anyway?". I wanted to be the owner of that Jeep. Or the person who wrote that bumper sticker. Ideally, both.
9. I want/don't want/want/don't want/want/don't want to know where raccoons are during the day...this brings up another concern. Um, where they are at night, too. Don't let the slashes fool you; I don't alternately want and not want at different times. I always have mixed feelings about this, and about what I'd do with the knowledge.
10. When I was about 15 or 16, staying with my dad for part of the summer, my half-brother Rob was only 7 or so. My dad was on what I'd *like* to document as a temporary Country Music kick, but to this day, if you're in his car when the 6 disc rotation's on, you never know. Brooks and Dunn'll blow your mind, just when you think you're safe. Anyway, we listened incessantly to JoDee Messina. I can't tell you how cute it was to watch a 7 year old belt out "BYE BYE, BYE BYE MY BABY, GOT A LEAD FOOT DOWN ON MY 'CCELERATOR AND A REARVIEW MIRROR TORN OFF...CUZ I AIN'T NEVER LOOKIN' BACK....AND THAT'S A FACT", eyes scrunched tightly shut, miniature fake microphone in hand. We knew the entire album, but that song was kind the rallying call for car rides. What does a 7 year old know about heartbreak? Really, what did 16 year old me know about heartbreak? I wonder if my dad marveled or mused at that.
11. Last night I dreamt I was pregnant. I don't often recall my dreams, but I've been pretty sick for a week now, and I wonder if that was my final fever, because I'm certainly improved, physically today. Despite the way dreams work--wherein alliances and familiarities that in real life make NO sense--like, I know my friend Steve does not know my best friend Kelly from high school for instance--this one was still a doozy. Dream logic aside, there are a few key components. I was pregnant with twins. I've only ever been pregnant with twins when I've dreamt I was pregnant (not often). But no one in this dream would believe me. They all knew I was pregnant; in fact with the exception of the part of the dream that occurred at waitforit,waitforit,waitforit, THE MALL OF AMERICA (I know, what? And I was in a hospital gown, cascading down that log ride thing, then accosted by the guy who wants you to shell out, like, $7 for a really unflattering picture of yourself at the moment of descent--didn't they realize I was in LABOR?), it all took place in the hospital. What no one believed, and they were fairly patronizing about it too, I witnessed various people sort of placate me with murmurs of "mmkay honey" and then roll their eyes at one another, was that I knew I was having twins. My mom believed me, I think. Props. Big props to Mom.
12. I like Nickelback.
13. I hope you were skimming this blog entry and overlooked #12. Sorry! I like the dude's voice. This does not give anyone license to take a big leap in logic here and assume I like Creed. Come on, guys.
14. I was in a major, major car accident in Ontario in 2001 that many people don't know about. It involved the following elements: A sudden, very severe "white-out" (in April!); a semi-truck losing control; three FULL flips of our vehicle; a loss of everyone's shoes--to this day, I wonder where our shoes went? Most of us were wearing flip-flips, given how warm it was when we left Chicago, and I don't know if a single one among the 6 of us left the accident scene with our shoes---the Jaws of Life (for me); a trip to the closest Best Western, courtesy of the Mounties; and a predominantly sleepless night during which we all alternated between courteous silence and sudden staccato comments like, "Hey, I, is anyone else up? I'm kinda scared. I can't believe we almost just died." The aborted trip to Toronto ended instead in a junkyard just outside of London, Ontario where we fished about the wreckage for our passports.
15. I attended the Hollywood premiere of "The Horse Whisperer" a long long time ago at Robert Redford's Sundance ranch. It was fun, although even if I were able to lay my hands on photos of the event, I'd not upload one because I was wearing a cowboy hat---against my better judgment, and only to appease my dad who was thoroughly into the whole event's theme. I didn't meet Mr. Redford.
16. There is nothing so humbling as being laid out sick for an extended period of time. I've had a week of being ill, and my zeal to just GET. BETTER. was exacerbated by, and ultimately morphed into, concern, because I was due (not with twins) in Vermont last night. Luckily it all worked out. Everyone was super gracious, and I wasn't even required to be the one to suggest I delay my trip. But man, there is nothing like the impotence of laying in bed, feeling awful, and just dreading something as basic and enjoyable as a trip to the shower. Praise God for good health. Thank you so much to all of you who were praying for me to get well, or gave great suggestions (Mike--you're the sweetest for not telling me that wasn't an entire gallon of orange juice when I so proudly proclaimed I'd downed the whole thing), or were just generally supportive.

Danka for reading, yo.
p.s. I didn't know Bernie Mac died. Truth.

second post script: Check out this dude. He lives outside of my apartment. I'm working up the courage to ask him what chain gang he escaped from. Okay we aborted mission on that because the pigeon photo would not upload. Instead I encountered this one. It makes me wonder. Should I chop my hair off? This is what it'd look like, I guess. . .