I won't celebrate death, not even a bad guy's.

I'm glad they're not releasing the death photos of Osama bin Laden.

Here's what Obama told CBS, according to White House press secretary Jay Carney: "It is important for us to make sure that very graphic photos of somebody who was shot in the head are not floating around as a incitement to violence or propaganda tools. That's not who we are. We don't trot out this stuff as trophies. We don't need to spike the football."  Obama: We won’t release bin Laden pics


Amen.

I don't celebrate death.  I won't celebrate the way this man lived his life (which is, I think, what we're supposed to do when a person dies) - this man was evil and filled with hate.  But I won't celebrate or cheer in response to his death.  I feel nothing at news of his death.

That's not true; I feel concern for a world where men like this are cultivated.

No Yelling!

I hate conflict.  I want everyone to like me all the time.  Yelling?  Forgeddaboudit.  Yelling breaks down lines of communication - you'll never convince anyone you're right if you're screaming in their face.

There was lots of conflict at work yesterday, and it culminated with one co-worker yelling in the face of another. To complicate matters further, the yeller was our boss.  That sets a lovely comfortable tone for the office, feel me?

I don't deal well with yelling - I think it's disrespectful and never the right thing to do, particularly in a "professional" setting.  I understand emotions take hold and sometimes we feel like we'll explode, but screaming and shouting?  Grown-ups don't solve problems that way.

I'm nervous about two things today as I get ready to start my workday -  I'm nervous that the boss won't apologize, which I think is a necessary thing, no matter how justified he's convinced himself he was; and I'm nervous that my friend will leave, which is what I would do if I'd been in her shoes yesterday.  Respect is such an important part of any relationship, and hurling angry words at a person is a sign that respect is sorely lacking.

Mistakes were made on both sides, is my view, and this hurdle can be overcome and we can all move forward in a happy-go-lucky manner - but there will have to be a calm discussion of the facts from yesterday; I don't think that scene will fade from our minds and go away without some real closure.

And I'm going to be late.

The crazy, I has it.

If I'm not pregnant, I'm going to be so fucking disappointed.


My boobs have that heavy, sore, full feeling.  I remember it.  It's not the same as "my nipples are tender because I'm about to start my period".


The dreams.  The lack of sleep.


That's really all.  I'm so not pregnant.  I tell myself I don't want to be, but I want to be.  Oh, I want to be.


I took a test at lunch today; negative, of course, but I imagined I could almost see a line there.  Almost.  Not quite, but almost.


But I'm not.  I'm not.  No way.


Probably not.


Right?

*****************

That was Monday night.  Last night, my questions were answered in the form of cramps that were so severe I thought I'd throw up from the pain.  Advil, heating pad, home remedies - nothing touched it.  (That's not normal, thank goodness, and they are back to only mildly annoying this morning.)

I need you to tell me I'm not going to do this shit every month.  I need you to tell me that one of these days my period will approach without me comparing every symptom to the way my body felt for that week 8 months ago when I, for a moment, experienced something new.  Even when I know our timing wasn't such that would've lead to a baby, my brain still takes over in the last days of each cycle, causing me to analyze every twinge or cramp.  I want to feel my body getting ready for menstruation and know that's what it is - not spend days comparing this to that and falsely convincing  myself that I'm knocked up again.  

I don't want this.  I want that, but I don't want this.  I don't want to buy stock in dollar store pregnancy tests, but the longer this goes on, the more I think of how much money it'd save.  

I just want life to be back to normal.  I want to not be crazy.  I want to not feel foolish...but that's how I feel when I write shit like I wrote up there.  (No, it's not the first time.)  

I wish I could fully accept the idea of never having children.  If I could convince myself 100% that would be okay, I think things would be easier.  That fear of not having a choice - it's permeating everything.  

Sometimes, I just want the floor to open up...

You guys really like it when I tell you embarrassing shit about myself, don't you?  Don't lie, you eat it up like candy.

In that case, here, have some more:

~  When I was 6, my aunt Sheila got married.  When she arrived at her bridal shower, I ran up to her and gave her a huge hug, yelling "HAPPY!..."  I faded out, realizing it wasn't her birthday, and no one says "Happy Bridal Shower!"  It's like my first ever embarrassing moment.

~  I remember her wedding reception vividly because I danced the night away and for years after considered myself a pretty fantastic dancer.  I even tried out for the dance team in middle school.  Once.  I didn't make it, of course.  And a few months later, when we were at a "dance" (one held in the middle school gym during school hours), I busted out one of those awesome dance moves I'd learned during try-outs.  The popular girls, the ones who'd made the dance team, they stood over there and watched me.  The looks on their faces told me they knew I was awesome and they were deciding right then and there to strike and never dance again until I was given my rightful spot on the team.  Until one of them said, "What is that supposed to be?"  She mimicked my arm-waving and foot-shuffling and I wished a hole would open up in the floor and swallow me.  I have claimed my white-girl status any time dancing has been mentioned in the subsequent years.

~  I didn't kiss a boy for the first time until I was 14.  He was my best friend's boyfriend.  Awesome, right?

~  I was in JROTC in high school, on the Drill Team, and I was pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.  This one time, during a competition, I was supposed to catch a rifle that was thrown over the formation - and I would've too, if the cow who threw the fucking thing hadn't been nervous and had thrown it somewhere near the same zip code where I stood.  The rifle went flying above and behind me, and convinced I'd be able to save it, I tried to make a dive for it...and landed on my ass.  In a military dress uniform.  In a skirt.  In front of a bunch of asshole teenagers.  I wanted to die, but not before I committed murder myself.

~  When I was 9, my hair got cut into a little pixie cut that would've been adorable on a skinny little elf of a child - with my round everything, well, do you remember Pat, from Saturday Night Live?  I went to church with a neighbor and her friend approached us, doing a double-take at me.  She studied me for a moment before turning to my neighbor and asking "Is that a boy or a girl?"

Oh, there are so many more, but my lunch hour is nearly over and I've not eaten yet.

Tell me yours, please?  Just one good one.  Please?

Memories - in the thankfully forgotten corner of my mind

There's this guy I had a major crush on when I was in middle school - Judd Morgan.  I just got an email saying he's following me on StumbleUpon.  I don't know what that means - no really, I don't - but I felt a little flattered.  And concerned. See, here's the memory that I relive every time I see Judd's name show up on my Facebook feed:

He was beautiful; olive skin, dark hair and eyes, an easy smile.  He was smart.  And he was kind.  I was the girl you probably shouldn't be found talking to in school, but somehow, I'd gotten his number, and when he answered the phone and learned it was me on the other end, he kept talking.  That was cool.

I don't know how long the conversation lasted - I was in the junk room at the back of the house, hanging out in the basement stairwell, the only place in the house where I could guarantee my Momma wouldn't overhear my phone conversation while she cooked dinner.  Judd had been talking to me for a while - I fancied myself one of those chicks who guys could talk to.  I figured it was good timing -

"Judd, will you be my boyfriend?"

He was kind when he turned me down.  He didn't make fun of me.  He didn't hang up.  But he didn't say yes, either.

I decided to deploy a tactic I'd used on my Momma for years - begging.  I could beg Momma into anything, why would this boy, this object of my affection, be any different?  Oh, but he was.  I pleaded and I begged, but he didn't budge.  He wasn't going to be my boyfriend.  He wasn't going to be cruel to me, either.  He didn't hang up, he didn't laugh, he wasn't mean.  But here's the real kicker:  To the best of my knowledge, Judd never told another soul about my shamelessness.  And thank God for that - I can only imagine how much worse things would've gotten.  Middle school taught me nothing beyond the cruelty of humanity and love of the word "fuck".

So thanks, Judd, for following me on Stumble, and thanks for reminding me that I also owe you thanks for being nice to me when you could've so easily been mean.

I said my realization also brought a wave of concern, and that's true - what if he's only following me, only friended me on Facebook, because he secretly laughs at me all the time and wants to see just how much of a trainwreck I really am?!

Gee, I hope I don't disappoint.  :)