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15 January 2009 @ 04:12 pm
I went into an interview this week for a full time job in a warehouse at the same place my hubby works at.  So I was offered the job today and I took it.  I'll be starting training next week and then full time the week after.   :)  I got job.  He's in the IT department, I'll be in the warehouse, so no we're not actually working together, but...  it's the same building.  Little weird.
Current Mood: giddygiddy
15 December 2008 @ 02:09 pm

Okay, it is once again meeting time.
Meeting is on Friday the 19th, starting at 6 - 6:30pm, my place, 1763 for those who it's been a while.

Potluck: Want we need

Main meat dish
Main veggie dish

Dessert is already covered.  Fuzziekit claimed it a month plus ago.
I hope to see you all there.  If not, Happy Holidays.

Current Music: The sweet sounds of silence (or the closest thing to it around here).
04 November 2008 @ 07:20 am
I voted!!!
Current Location: home
Current Mood: hopefulhopeful
Current Music: Täuschung (Deception Auf Deutsch) - The Crüxshadows
Health Care.  It would probably take more than one day, but I would put some kind of universal health care system in effect.  All HMOs do is screw people over and charge way too much for that right.
Current Mood: sleepysleepy
27 July 2008 @ 08:31 am

What Flavour Are You? I taste like Peanut Butter.I taste like Peanut Butter.

I am one of the most blendable flavours; I go with sweet, I go with sour, I go with bland, I go with anything. I am practical and good company, but have something of a tendency to hang around when I'm not wanted, unaware that my presence is not welcome. What Flavour Are You?
Current Location: home
Current Mood: chipperchipper
Current Music: The click clacking of keys
"Remember who you wanted to be."
Current Mood: calmcalm
Current Music: Mr. Roboto - Styx
01 June 2008 @ 11:11 am
If you could go back and fix your most regrettable decision, what would it be, and what would you do differently?

I have plenty of regrettable decisions behind me, but would I fix them?  No.  If I fixed them, then I would never have the chance to learn from them.  If I didn’t learn from them, who is to say that I wouldn’t make the same mistake later on that might cause even more damage.  I’d rather have my experiences behind me to learn from.

Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: War Pigs - Black Sabbath

To start you need a bottom that’s firm on the outside but wonderfully soft in the middle like finely toasted bread.  Italian or some type of French bread is preferred.  This is your base, everything builds off of this, and if possible it should be slightly larger than the top.  This has the chance to make or break a perfect sandwich.  Next is the meat of the sandwich.  Chicken lightly grilled to perfection with a little lemon juice and pepper is best.  This is followed by pepper jack cheese.  You shouldn’t need to melt the cheese it should slightly melt and bend on top of the chicken from its heat and the bacon.  Which by the way the next layer is nicely crisped bacon, the leaner cuts please.  Now don’t forget the oregano.  This should be put on at about the bacon layer so that it’s in the middle of the sandwich and can also get stuck in the cheese.  Then is a thin slice of a nice ripe tomato that is big enough to cover most of the sandwich without hanging out all of the sides.  The next layer is a fine slice of a sweet onion like Vidalia, slightly smaller than the tomato layer.  Then the dressing: ranch, peppercorn ranch is the best but we can make due.  The last layer, a top of lightly toasted bread preferably with some parmesan cheese baked into it.  This, my friend, is the perfect sandwich.  Now, anyone care to prepare one for me?

Current Mood: amusedamused
Current Music: Goodbye Earl - The Dixie Chicks
The Story of an Hour
Kate Chopin (1894)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment, a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her, spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.

Current Mood: calmcalm
09 May 2008 @ 09:26 am
"Why is that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?" -Ernest Gaines

We would like to know who really believes in gay rights on livejournal. There is no bribe of a miracle or anything like that. If you truly believe in gay rights, then repost this and title the post as "Gay Rights." If you don't believe in gay rights, then just ignore this. Thanks.

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.

I grabbed this from fuzziekit.