:: The Freewheelin' Di Winson ::

The lyrics of my life, along with various musical selections
:: Welcome to The Freewheelin' Di Winson :: Bloghome | Photo Albums | E-Me ::
JUN 66: I am 14 months old in this photo, and I am smiling because I have a new baby sister ... or maybe because I have just peed in the pool.
[::..About Me..::]
I am an American.
I type really fast.
I am left-eye dominant.
I brush & floss regularly.
I am not as funny as I think I am, sometimes.
I was born on Easter.
I believe in music.
I play tennis.
I do not work quietly without disturbing others.
I am a procrastinator.
I watch certain movies just because I know they will make me cry.
I am not my fucking khaki cargo shorts.
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:: Monday, March 31, 2003 ::

Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Holy cow!

Cubs 15, Mets 2

:: Di 3:44:00 PM [+] ::
Today's prayer/mantra/meditation/plea:

Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win. Please let the Cubs win.

At least one day in first place. One day above the .500 mark. That's all I ask, really.

Please. Let. The. Cubs. Win.
:: Di 1:08:00 PM [+] ::
:: Sunday, March 30, 2003 ::
Here's to a good week.

Maybe minus the roller-coaster of the past week, I dunno. Absolutely fine, work-wise, except for finding out Ginger's taking a new job. Which is great for her because she'll get to spend more time with her daughter, but ... man, I hate it when I get close to someone at work, and then they leave. It just hurts, y'know? But good for her, and I really do feel as if we will continue to get to know each other and become better friends, and that's totally cool.

Friends. How many times have I used THAT word over the last 15 months? Questioning my own value as a friend, a pal, a confidante, an acquaintance because of idiotic moves I had made. Realizing the value of having a truly good friend: Someone who will tell you when you need your ass kicked, yet, when they know you have fucked up, and you know it, and you feel like absolute shit, will be there to support you. And remind you that you are not so bad, after all. Recognizing that sometimes, being the best friend of all has nothing to do with getting in the midst of your troubles and forcing their views upon you, but in simply Being There. Period.

I shouldn't admit this, but there for a while I was getting a little burned-out on Seinfeld. I know, I know: Sacrilege. It's OK, though, I took a few nights off, and now I'm right back where I've almost always been: Loving it. Tonight's episode: George decides to do the opposite and finds that everything starts going his way. "I'm back in business, baby!"

Now playing in my head: "Only a Dream" by Mary Chapin Carpenter off the Come On, Come On CD.

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream.

:: Di 9:01:00 PM [+] ::
OK, now I am officially pig-biting mad.

Just heard from Dan Rather during a break in the Michigan State-Texas game about an unexpected "act of kindness": Iraqi civilians sharing their food, including chickens and lambs, with U.S. soldiers/troops who have run low on rations. And suddenly I cannot help but think, why the FUCK are our troops running low on rations? How can that be? Did no one stop to think how much food and water they would need on this mission? I mean, they have been over there, moving full-tilt, for just over a week; if they are already running low, what can that mean? And what about ammunition? Are they running low on EVERYTHING -- or just the essentials, food and water?

My immediate reaction is, OK, then, get 'em out. This would seem, to me, to be the very basics of preparation: You take as many supplies as you are going to need for however long you believe you are going to be there. You do NOT run out of stuff!

Speaking of troops: I have just recently realized that the word "troop" has been used as a singular unit. Apparently, 1 soldier = 1 troop. Am I wrong about this? I always thought that a troop was a collection of soldiers, much like I was a member of a Brownie troop when I was in 2nd grade -- up until my mom bought me the entire Brownie uniform (brown dress, belt, socks, change holder for the weekly 10-cent dues and, of course, the Brownie beanie) from Carson-Pirie-Scott. After which I promptly quit the Brownies. (What the hell? I didn't know I was going to have to wear a DRESS to school every Tuesday ... and this was back when I actually wasn't opposed to wearing dresses.)

And what is the slogan of the Brownies/Girl Scouts? "Be prepared." OK, maybe that's the Boy Scouts. What do I know, I am a Brownie dropout.

: )

And the list of people I know -- or rather, the list of people that people I know, know -- who are over there fighting continues to grow: 2nd Lt. Joshua Lyons of the Marines 1st Expeditionary Unit, a boy I have known since he was in 7th grade and his parents moved here from Galveston Oh Galveston; Roger Stranc, a volunteer civilian who apparently is driving semis over in Iraq (I grew up with Roger; his parents live 1 block from my parents); my mom's friend Linda's niece; my sister's co-worker's nephew named Bruce Evans, a soldier in the U.S. Army; my friend Melinda's co-worker's son; and Lance Cpl. Aaron Ernst and Lance Cpl. Ryan Dean, a couple of soldiers that 3rd-grade students at the Perryville (Mo.) Grade School, of which my best friend Diane's granddaughter Samantha is a class member, wrote to this past week.

The world gets very small when you realize the links we share with one another. At the same time, Josh and Roger and all the others seem oh-so-far away at this moment.

Now playing (in my head, anyway): "War on War" from the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot CD by Wilco. Great album, by the way.
:: Di 5:58:00 PM [+] ::
This is not a beginning ... merely a continuation.

Honestly, I am not so good at introductions. Online or in real life. Not that online is not real life; in fact, in my relatively short time on The Information Superhighway, I have managed to intertwine my online and real-life relationships into one perfectly fucked-up existence. (Note to self: It is virtually impossible to write or even THINK when Dick Vitale is babbling in the background. Thank God and Sanyo for the MUTE button on my remote -- which I nearly melted today by setting it a little too close to the burner whilst I was cooking sketti earlier this evening.)

Not that I cook all that often, and the only reason I did tonight was because I was craving spaghetti, and there is nowhere in this town to get good spaghetti. And yes, I use a packet of seasonings and tomato sauce and/or paste to make my sauce, which I realize is merely one baby step above dumping a jar of Ragu or Prego or even Newman's Own on a pile o' pasta, but hey, in my mind, it is homemade, and that is really all that matters. And for the record, the sketti was excellent. (The garlic bread had mold on it, though, and that was infuriating.)

Anyhoo, about this Web log. Which some people would probably prefer to call an "online journal." Maybe I prefer that, too; after all, I am a journalist in real life, and I always liked the thought of keeping a journal rather than writing in a diary. I cannot seem to keep a journal on paper, however. I have great handwriting -- ever since 5th grade when I emulated Miss Kull and her perfectly formed letters -- but after years of composing at the keyboard, my longhand cannot keep up with my thoughts whenever I try to write them out using a pen or pencil and paper. Which undoubtedly has wreaked havoc (heh) on my creativity, but ... whatcha gonna do? Give up typing? I might have to, actually. My right wrist has been hurting for 2 days. *Twisting wrist that way, and this.* Feels pretty good now!

Anyhoo, I wanted a place to call My Own. I have begun these things before but never stuck with them until I met this amazing guy, online, and was welcomed into his site, and I still consider that my online home base/headquarters/sanctuary. This, however, shall be where I go when I REALLY wanna rant. Or pout. Or spill out every bit of sadness and happiness and whateverness that I happen to be feeling at any given time. It might not always be pretty ... and that is my final warning.

Now playing: The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. Entire CD. Hence the title of this here blog. : )
:: Di 1:52:00 AM [+] ::

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