This is an open letter to my friends, my family, and anyone else reading it. You are hereby put on notice that you are not allowed to do anything to yourself that requires a hospital (Stacie and Kirsten, you can still have your babies, but you are not allowed to have any type of life-threatening complications). You are not to ski/snowboard/skateboard and break yourself. You are not to crash your car/truck/motorcycle/scooter. You are not to fall off a stepladder, sew your finger or forehead with a sewing machine, get stitches or participate in any activity that could cause you to require an ambulance.

Equally prohibited are illnesses which require any type of hospitalization. No extreme dehydration. No food poisoning. No heart attacks, strokes, seizures or collapsed lungs. No severe bronchitis, no dangerously low blood sugar, no pneumonia.

Do you hear me? No. More. I've been meaning to post something to this effect for a while- since my dad's heart surgery. I meant to do it last week when Caryn's grandfather went back into the hospital. As I type this, my dad is back in the emergency room with what they think is post-operative pneumonia. I can't take any more of this. No. More. Hospitals.

I had dinner at my parents' place on Wednesday. My parents and I do not talk about anything remotely having to do with sex. It's just the way it is. But somehow we managed to have two conversations related to that topic over dinner.

It started when I made an off color remark about the mustard on the table. It was Beaver brand. I laughed, and said to my mom, "you have Beaver mustard."
She just looked at me and was like, "yeah, so?"
So then I said, "at least its not Sweet Hot Beaver Mustard."

She was still looking at me quizzically, and so I explained that "sweet hot beaver mustard" (which is an actual product by the way) was a joke between some friends and I, because of its humourous implications/innuendo. It was at this point that I discovered that my 60-year-old mother doesn't know what "beaver" is slang for, but that my 60-year-old father does.

Then we were talking about movies and I was saying that I saw Return of the King 3 times and didn't have to pay for it any of the times. When I saw it with Lolly, we had re-admit tickets from when she and her family walked out of "Love, Actually", because of the part with the unclothed movie stand-ins (I'm not being prudish, I'm trying to be filter-friendly and keep the unrelated search hits down), which somehow led to a conversation about how much that type of film star gets paid, and somehow my views on Ron Geramie (again with the search ref avoidance) came up- that frankly, if I am going to view that type of movie, I want the men to be attractive, not hairy and greasy. Thank you, I am much more turned on by someone who is easy to look at, than some ugly ass guy with a huge... talent (to quote Moulin Rouge). I got a raised eyebrow from my mom at the "if I'm going to view that kind of film" (thought I actually said "If I'm going to watch ****) but thankfully she let it go...

If you call me Judy it means you know my name

If you call me Judyth you know me more formally, probably in a work/business setting

If you call me Judyth but pronounce it Ju-deeth you are a telemarketer

If you call me Judykins you are my dad

If you call me Imp you have known me since I was a very small child and are one of the rare few I let get away with it.

If you call me Jujubee you are Anne- and if you're not I *will* hit you

If you call me Judi-Knight you are Joseph or Dave, or sometimes Nicole

If you call me Judy you know me from AOL and don't know me well enough to know my real name

If you call me Juliana you know me from the SCA

If you call me Juliette you knew me as a kid in the SCA and don't know that I go by Juliana now

If you call me Juliette-soon-to-be-something-else you are Evaine or Wyrm (and I'm, hoping you're the latter because that means we're in touch again)

If you call me Mama and you are not Stephanie, you are Ben from highschool and you'd better knock it off.

If you call me your favorite Charlie's Angel you are Caryn, and you are fabulous

If you call me Blushes you know me from IRC

If you call me Abby you know me from my early IRC days, or from online writing groups

If you call me Baby you are Ryan

If you call me Honey you are Peter or Sarah, or any of the guys who work at Mr. Pickles

If you call me Love you are Michael from the title company who I have a huge crush on but have never met

If you call me Goober you are probably Ida, and I've done something not all that bright

If you call me Ma'am I don't care who you are, I will make a face at you

Today was a weird but good day. I had jamba juice for breakfast, and was hungry for lunch by 10:30. Normally I just have coffee in the morning, and am not hungry for lunch until noonish. I was craving all kinds of things- over an hour before I could go to lunch. I wanted a bagel, I wanted a hot dog; eggs and bacon; pizza; chili. when I left for lunch at one,I went to the local Noah's to have a bagel, but the parking lot was overflowing and I was super hungry, so I decided to go to Carrow's and have eggs instead. Believe it or not though, this entry isn't about food.

There was this couple sitting in a booth right by my table. I think I first noticed them because the guy was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Cal tshirt. Then I realized he was wearing slippers. The girl was wearing equally sleepwearesque clothes, and I realized they were drinking coffee and their plates had breakfast type foods on them. (apparently it was a breakfast at lunchtime kind of day). I wasn't really paying all that much attention to them, I had brought stuff to read, but at one point, the girl said in a really sugary voice "and you married me..." I hadn't realized they were married, but I looked up and saw the ring on his finger.

I was marginally aware of them as I finished my food, and they lingered over their coffee. They were obviously very in love with one another, which I always find touching. For all I know they were newlyweds and the glow hadn't faded yet, but with everything you hear about the romance fading when you get married, it gave me warm fuzzies, as well as hope for my own future.

I'm not sure what possessed me to do it, but I tore the bottom off the page I was reading (I was reading an article printed off the computer) and wrote a little note on it that said "I wasn't eavesdropping or watching you or anything, but it brightened my day to see a married couple acting so in love in public. Best wishes for a wonderful future to the both of you." I folded the piece of paper in half, and placed in on their table as I headed up to pay my check. The husband had disappeared so the wife was alone at the table. She gave the piece of paper a very strange look but picked it up and read it. I purposely did not look over there while I was at the register, but glanced over as I went out the door. She had been watching me, and when I glanced at her, she smiled at me and simply said "thank you" and I walked out, smiling to myself.

I never do things like that, I'm usually in my own world and don't want to intrude on anyone else's. I know if a strange person tried to talk to me I'd probably be pretty standoffish. Which is probably why I wrote a note instead of talking to her. But it made my day, and by the look on her face, I kinda think it made hers too.

A month ago, Kevin Smith was on the radio promoting "Jersey Girl" which opens on Friday. As he was leaving they were saying "'Jersey Girl' March 26." And I thought to myself, "oh, it's the 24th, I have to call and wish Erica a happy birthday."

I was on 280 headed to work, and I pulled out my cell phone and dialed her house, planning to sing to her machine if she was already on her way to work. As the phone is ringing, I realize I have missed March 4th (an anniversary of sorts for me) and I can't figure out how that happened. Then it dawned on me... it was February 24th, not March 24th, which is her birthday.

By this time her machine is going to pick up any second, and even if I hung up on her machine, she has Caller ID and would have known I called. So I left a message to the effect of "I was calling to wish you a happy birthday but realized it's only February, so I'll call you in a month."

Of course the first thing I did this morning was call and wish her a happy birthday- and I had the right day this time...

I'm so going to hell.

The guy who delivers mail to my office is the nicest mailman ever. Charlie the Mailman. He's always here by 10:30, and he always says hello and is super friendly. He's got to be in his seventies, but he's spry and always so chipper.

But he gets completely baffled by the little scanner thing for certified mail. He stands at my desk and fights with the thing for several minutes, while I just sit there and smile and keep working, while still being attentive of course.

But today, he comes in, and I say my usual (very Charlie's Angels-esque) "Good Morning Charlie" and he smiles at me and takes a seat in my waiting area without saying a word. So I wait a minute, then can't help but laugh. Thankfully I was hidden from his view by a tall stack of files, because I don't want him to know I'm laughing at him.

I shoot off an email to my coworker-
subject: Good Morning Charlie
message: Make yourself at home why don't you?

The string then goes something like this:
co-wkr: yeah, what is he doing??
me: I don't know, but I'm so going to hell for that comment...
me: I think he's got certified mail for us and he's fighting with his computer thing again...
co-wkr: yeah, that's what it looks like
co-wkr: but he didn't say anything

But yes, indeed, he did have certified mail for us. And as I was signing for it, he said, "From Blah Hoo Blah State Bank" But I heard "Blah Hoo Blah State Penn" and I looked up at Charlie said, "But we don't do that kind of law here..."

It's going to be one of those days- I can feel it.

My new favorite word: interdigitation. Especially when its overheard as "premarital interdigitation". It essentially means holding hands- fingers entwined- but it just sounds like it should mean something dirty doesn't it?

Some of you may remember this post from two years ago. This weekend, all the feelings expressed were completely and totally validated. I was at a friend's booth (she sells garb at events), and this other woman I know came in and bought a couple of things. She pulled out her checkbook, and I said, "hey, I have those same checks!" and we proceeded to have a 10 minute discussion on the trauma of the switch in design, and how neither of us had found a suitable replacement yet. I found one design, from Checks Unlimited that has a similar enough feel to it that I'm seriously considering ordering them. It's their Renaissance design. Again, I like them because they are feminine without being overly "girly", and grown up without being stodgy. They have an elegance about them that I like too- elegant without being stuck-up.

I used to write a lot of checks. I liked my check design. I wanted to use my checks. Now I write as few as possible. It helps that I now have one of those check card things. But I'm thinking if I get these checks, I might go back to writing checks, or at least being happy about writing the ones I do write.

There is much I want to say, but very little time to say it as life is severely hectic right now. But in an effort to at least get one post up this week, here is a little something that seems to be going around, that I stole from Caryn:

Say you are meeting a new person -- blind date, new friend, whoever -- and you want them to have some idea of who and what kind of person you are. But you can't actually tell them in so many words. Instead, you have to give them a box with a dozen things in it for them to look at/read/listen to/taste/whatever. What would you put in the box? (A copy of your journal or a piece of paper with the URL to your journal on it would be the same thing as just telling them directly yourself, so that's not allowed.)

1. My covenant ring
2. My garnet earrings
3. A piece of blackwork
4. My plastic angel I’ve had since I was 9
5. A daffodil
6. A jar of my mom’s pickles
7. “Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister” by Gregory Maguire
8. “The Princess Bride” on DVD
9. A pair of novelty socks
10. A list of blogs I really enjoy
11. My Marc Chagall coffee table book, with “Three Candles”, “L’arbre De Vie”, “La Mariee”, “Joy”, “Roses”, and “Le Vent dans les Fleurs” marked with ribbons
12. My favors from the Westermark Players and Bella Luna

I did laundry last night, because I wanted to wear my camel slacks today, and I thought they were clean but they weren't. The thing about most of my work pants is that I can't put them in the dryer. I put them on pants hangers and hang them either on the back of my bedroom door or on the rod for my vertical blinds (this works especially well in the summer when the glass door is always open). Normally if I hang them up early enough, and run the heater in my room all night during winter, they're completely dry in the morning. Well, last night, I didn't hang them up until a little after 10, and didn't run the heater, so they were still quite damp when I got up this morning.

Against my better judgement, I threw them in the dryer for about 20 minutes with another load that was drying, and when I pulled them out, they were still *slightly* damp, but I figured I'd wear them anyway and they'd dry the rest of the way while I was wearing them. Well that was fine for the first 5 minutes or so, then they started to get a little cold. It's been about an hour since I got dressed, and they're completely dry except for the backs of my knees. And I just have to laugh at myself.