July 31, 2005


I've only donated blood once. I was in college and it was quite an ordeal. First, they said I was borderline anemic, so they had to run some tests to see if they even wanted my blood. Turns out it was OK, so they hooked me up to the bag and started draining my arm. I guess they need the bag and also three little vials of blood; on the third vial, somehow the needle popped out of my arm and blood squirted everywhere. After that unique experience, I was leery about giving blood, and then I started hopping back and forth to Europe every year or so, so it was never an issue. So I don't really donate blood.

But I can donate hair.

When I had been dating my husband for a week, I cut my hair short. Like short short. After the look on his face, I didn't cut my hair again for five years. At first it became a Lord of the Rings joke: I was going to look like an elf. After Return of the King was over, I turned to him and said, "Now what?" I guess I had grown so attached to the hair that it scared me to cut it.

I had always intended to donate my hair, but then it became a quest to donate as much as I could. It grew and grew, and the more it grew, the more annoyed my husband and I grew towards it. It was always in our mouths, getting pulled, clogging the drains and the vacuum, and driving us nuts. In May I decided I was ready for a cut, but I told myself to wait a month and see if I was still ready. A month passed and I got cold feet, so I let another month go by. And I knew I was ready.


We chopped 18 inches off, and bagged it to send to Locks of Love. I hope some little girl gets a beautiful wig from it.

Everyone keeps asking me if I'm going to start all over again. I don't know; I'm really enjoying the short hair:

1. no more marathon blowdrying
2. no more sitting on the hair
3. no more rolling over in bed and suffocating
4. Charlie was biting and tugging on it when it was long
5. less money spent on Draino

But since my hair grows so fast, maybe I'll get to another wig. We'll see. The husband likes it short, so for now I'm happy.

And now that I've kept you in suspense for long enough...here's the new and improved Sarah. And the getting-too-big-to-cuddle Charlie.


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July 28, 2005


Gnat got fish. When I was her age, I had two fish named Bert and Ernie, and I helped out by feeding them one day. Unfortunately, I fed them an entire can of fishfood on the day my father had just cleaned the aquarium. Whoops.

I've always been interested in pet fish; the husband and I registered for an aquarium when we got married and bought three fish (well, five if you count Milhouse I and Milhouse II, may they rest in peace). Then we bought a plecostomus to help keep things clean, and we noticed that when the shopkeeper scooped him up, we ended up with a snail too. Into the tank he went. A few days later, I did a doubletake when I realized there were two snails. Upon closer inspection, I found we had been visited by the snail stork thirteen times. Note to self: snails reproduce asexually.

The fish are still living with my mom, and we may inherit them back if they live another year. I'm anxious to move back to the US so we can get our aquarium back out of the box and get some more fish. The pet department is where I really find myself homesick lately. Here we have but one shelf in the PX for pet supplies; I'd give anything to go to PetSmart these days.

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July 27, 2005


Look what I did today...


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July 12, 2005


Today I was trying to remember when I first read Bunker Mulligan. I was happy, and tearful, to find that I had documented the occasion:

The sphere grows every day. You write a post. Maybe someone notices it. Oh, look, a comment. And they've left a link to their own blog. And then you go there and realize that you now have yet another blog you'd like to read every day and you're running out of time in the day.

Shoot. That just happened to me.

Mike left a comment, so I went to his blog and found an amazing post on intelligence. There's so much there, but one tidbit is

To truly be "smart," you must have knowledge and experience. And those must both be broad and eclectic. Knowledge can come from books, but experience only comes from doing something other than reading and writing. Unfortunately, many people feel they can get by with one or the other. I've known some very intelligent people with loads of knowledge who cannot judge distance, hammer a nail, or relate an allegory to anything in their lives. I've known people with years of experience doing things who cannot understand theoretical concepts well enough to capitalize on that experience. The "intellectual elite" fall into the former category.

I started reading his site again from the beginning, and I found one bit that made me smile:

Like Twain, I shy away from organized churches. I've found a better relationship with God on my own. My cathedral has 18 holes, bunkers, tee boxes, water hazards, and greens. I'm closer to God on the golf course than I am sitting in a pew surrounded by people who believe almost the way I do.

If there's a heaven, Bunker's playing golf there every day.

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Charlie celebrated his three month birthday yesterday...


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July 06, 2005


Our dog is hilarious. He's such a couch potato that when I tried to take him for a walk today, he starting crying and trying to climb up my leg so I would carry him. We barely made it across the street before I gave up on the walk altogether. What a bum!

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