Today was a silly day. I woke up late anad got to work a little bit late and got home late and now I'm up late. Everything late. I think it's Mama's fautl for haivng me five days late. Even with my eight o'clock classssss I cna always make it on time. But only sometimes. Because like yesterday I randomly slept in until 20 minutes before I needed to leave.
I had an espanol test today that I didn't take because of, well, I didn't want to. I will take it tomorrow. Plus I'm taking a break from that homework to update on my life. I need to be better at it. Homework, that is. I'm having a good week but it is really tiring and stressful. That's why I eat chocolate.
I think that I try to be clever when I blog, but really I just talk a lot. Do you think I should not write as much when I do? I don't think people read all the way through it.
I love my roommates! We are like a family. We have worked on our scrpitrue study and prayeeeeer and we love each other. They're cool girls, except I usually am never home to do the dishes with them so I feel bad. But they always help me with everything. Rachel is going home nextw eek and I am jealous because I miss trees. But we ate fried ice cream flavored ice cream for Carolyn's birthday. She and Naomi (Yvonne) are twins. And Amy is a rebellious teenager. Jazlyn's the dad, Rachel is the mom, and I am the grandma. I'm not even old.
I am going to my first concert in 25 days! Ingrid Michaelson. I have to miss the ward talent show because of it though. But I think it is a worthy sacrifice.
I am excited for the VT workshop we're planning for next month. It is going to be wonderful and all.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Small Something Sobre Sangre
Let it be known that I gave blood today.
Insert the word "almost" between "I" and "gave," and you've got yourself a true sentence.
You see, I am scared of needles. Terrified, even. Blood doesn't bother me, and getting shots and having blood drawn never even really hurt that bad to me, but the thought of having the needle in me has always been a source of uneasiness and fear. To demonstrate how poorly I've handled things like this in the past, here is an abridgment of my history with needles.
Chapter 1:
At ten years old, I had to have tubes put in my ears. This required anesthesia. But before they could anesthetize me, I needed an IV. But before they could put the IV in me, they had to give me a ton of laughing gas because I was so nervous I wouldn't hold still and I kept crying for Mama. I'm such a baby.
Chapter 2:
When I was a senior in high school, I had a small cyst on my thyroid. My sister had had one just like it, albeit larger, a few months before, and she was going to have to have a biopsy on hers (this was until it miraculously disappeared about a week before the surgery was scheduled. But that is a different story). In order to check mine out and make sure it was nothing serious, they wanted to do a CT scan. If you know anything about it (which I don't, except for that I had one), apparently it is good to have dye in your veins to highlight them so the doctors can see what is going on in there. The easiest process for this would have been to have me drink the dye over 24 hours or so, but they wanted to do it that day. So they got the grand idea of injecting the dye in my veins with needles.
Yes, I said "needles." Plural. And here is why.
I sat down in the chair with my left arm completely entrusted to the nurse, my right arm stretched out to be as far away from the needles as possible. Mama was there to hold my hand and I took advantage of that. So the nurse put the needle in me, and I thought, "Oh, that didn't hurt at all." But then she took one look at me and said, "Uh-oh," and then, to the other nurse, "Um, can we get this girl a stretcher?"
Apparently it even scared Mama. My face went completely white, lips all purple and stuff, and even though I wasn't in pain, my body freaked out about the needle. So they got me on a stretcher and waited for the saline solution to go up in my veins. And waited, and waited, and waited. My body didn't want to take it. Probably because it knew that needles are evil and that nothing good can come of them. Ha. No but really, it was all bunching up three or four inches above where they inserted the needle and just not going through.
So what did they do?
They tried the other arm.
Yeah, that's right. Two needles in one day. And it still didn't work! I was exhausted. They almost tried to do it again, but Mom asked if they actually needed the dye, and when they told her it could be done without it, she refused to let them put another one in me.
Now you see why I keep her. :)
Chapter 3:
The summer after my senior year I worked at a daycare. Before I started working there, I had to do all the background check stuff and get a TB test (I would have had to do drug testing too but Millie knew it wouldn't have been an issue. I love being LDS!).
You want to know the crazy thing? The TB test almost made me pass out! Just that little bitty thing! I hardly felt a thing when she did it. Right afterward, I felt fine. I said, "Oh. Is that it?" and she said yes, so Mama and I got up and walked on out. She was so proud of me. But about halfway to the car, I got really dizzy and had to sit down. So much for being brave.
So anyway, that's the "still really long even though it is abridged because I'm so long winded" version of my needle history. Hopefully I have adequately demonstrated why giving blood would be such a huge ordeal for me. But even with this crazy fear of needles, every time I walk by a blood drive in the Wilk, I cannot help but have this overwhelming desire to donate blood. I know there are so many people who need it, and I think it would be really cool to overcome my fear for such a noble cause!
I walked by it on Tuesday afternoon on my way home from work, and almost sat down and did it right then. But I decided I should come back when I had more time. So I called Jazlyn, told her I was going on Thursday, and asked her to come with me. She said she would. So I was preparing myself, talking myself into not being scared, going back and forth between being really excited and freaking out. I went to bed last night freaked out and sure that I was not going to even try. But when I woke up, I felt surprisingly calm and just like I really wanted to donate. While I still had that attitude, I figured it was best to go ahead and get on up to school. I even ate iron-fortified cereal out of my special bowl to pump me up for the day.
So I came up to school and filled out the paperwork, and when the guy took me back to take my blood pressure and stuff, he looked at the form and within seconds knew that I was disqualified.
You wanna know why? Because I got my ears pierced last October. And you have to wait a year after that. Apparently there is still some chance that it could be infected. Seriously though, about three more weeks will have been a year since the piercing. I couldn't believe it.
On the bright side, though, my blood pressure was excellent and my pulse was only a little bit high because of the nerves. And I still got snacks and the awesome t-shirt!
I'm going back in eight weeks when they're here next. And I *will* do it! I sat with Jazlyn as she had hers done, and I am pretty used to the idea now. I never thought I would say it, but I am actually looking forward to having that huge needle stuck in my arm in a few weeks.
Insert the word "almost" between "I" and "gave," and you've got yourself a true sentence.
You see, I am scared of needles. Terrified, even. Blood doesn't bother me, and getting shots and having blood drawn never even really hurt that bad to me, but the thought of having the needle in me has always been a source of uneasiness and fear. To demonstrate how poorly I've handled things like this in the past, here is an abridgment of my history with needles.
Chapter 1:
At ten years old, I had to have tubes put in my ears. This required anesthesia. But before they could anesthetize me, I needed an IV. But before they could put the IV in me, they had to give me a ton of laughing gas because I was so nervous I wouldn't hold still and I kept crying for Mama. I'm such a baby.
Chapter 2:
When I was a senior in high school, I had a small cyst on my thyroid. My sister had had one just like it, albeit larger, a few months before, and she was going to have to have a biopsy on hers (this was until it miraculously disappeared about a week before the surgery was scheduled. But that is a different story). In order to check mine out and make sure it was nothing serious, they wanted to do a CT scan. If you know anything about it (which I don't, except for that I had one), apparently it is good to have dye in your veins to highlight them so the doctors can see what is going on in there. The easiest process for this would have been to have me drink the dye over 24 hours or so, but they wanted to do it that day. So they got the grand idea of injecting the dye in my veins with needles.
Yes, I said "needles." Plural. And here is why.
I sat down in the chair with my left arm completely entrusted to the nurse, my right arm stretched out to be as far away from the needles as possible. Mama was there to hold my hand and I took advantage of that. So the nurse put the needle in me, and I thought, "Oh, that didn't hurt at all." But then she took one look at me and said, "Uh-oh," and then, to the other nurse, "Um, can we get this girl a stretcher?"
Apparently it even scared Mama. My face went completely white, lips all purple and stuff, and even though I wasn't in pain, my body freaked out about the needle. So they got me on a stretcher and waited for the saline solution to go up in my veins. And waited, and waited, and waited. My body didn't want to take it. Probably because it knew that needles are evil and that nothing good can come of them. Ha. No but really, it was all bunching up three or four inches above where they inserted the needle and just not going through.
So what did they do?
They tried the other arm.
Yeah, that's right. Two needles in one day. And it still didn't work! I was exhausted. They almost tried to do it again, but Mom asked if they actually needed the dye, and when they told her it could be done without it, she refused to let them put another one in me.
Now you see why I keep her. :)
Chapter 3:
The summer after my senior year I worked at a daycare. Before I started working there, I had to do all the background check stuff and get a TB test (I would have had to do drug testing too but Millie knew it wouldn't have been an issue. I love being LDS!).
You want to know the crazy thing? The TB test almost made me pass out! Just that little bitty thing! I hardly felt a thing when she did it. Right afterward, I felt fine. I said, "Oh. Is that it?" and she said yes, so Mama and I got up and walked on out. She was so proud of me. But about halfway to the car, I got really dizzy and had to sit down. So much for being brave.
So anyway, that's the "still really long even though it is abridged because I'm so long winded" version of my needle history. Hopefully I have adequately demonstrated why giving blood would be such a huge ordeal for me. But even with this crazy fear of needles, every time I walk by a blood drive in the Wilk, I cannot help but have this overwhelming desire to donate blood. I know there are so many people who need it, and I think it would be really cool to overcome my fear for such a noble cause!
I walked by it on Tuesday afternoon on my way home from work, and almost sat down and did it right then. But I decided I should come back when I had more time. So I called Jazlyn, told her I was going on Thursday, and asked her to come with me. She said she would. So I was preparing myself, talking myself into not being scared, going back and forth between being really excited and freaking out. I went to bed last night freaked out and sure that I was not going to even try. But when I woke up, I felt surprisingly calm and just like I really wanted to donate. While I still had that attitude, I figured it was best to go ahead and get on up to school. I even ate iron-fortified cereal out of my special bowl to pump me up for the day.
So I came up to school and filled out the paperwork, and when the guy took me back to take my blood pressure and stuff, he looked at the form and within seconds knew that I was disqualified.
You wanna know why? Because I got my ears pierced last October. And you have to wait a year after that. Apparently there is still some chance that it could be infected. Seriously though, about three more weeks will have been a year since the piercing. I couldn't believe it.
On the bright side, though, my blood pressure was excellent and my pulse was only a little bit high because of the nerves. And I still got snacks and the awesome t-shirt!
I'm going back in eight weeks when they're here next. And I *will* do it! I sat with Jazlyn as she had hers done, and I am pretty used to the idea now. I never thought I would say it, but I am actually looking forward to having that huge needle stuck in my arm in a few weeks.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I had a birthday, shout Hooray!
A lot has happened since the last time I posted; I have some catching up to do.
First of all, the attempt to go a whole day without talking with my hands was ruined in the first thirty minutes on my walk to school. I just couldn't do it.
Also, my birthday was on Sunday! I had a great day, except for the stomachache I had at the end because everyone provided birthday desserts instead of birthday meals. But you know what? It was worth it. I realized, yet again, that I am loved! I also discovered that people show me love through food, which is just too bad for my gut. But oh, that crème brulée. . . .
Yesterday, though, was the real party. At 2:00, we gathered at my apartment and eventually made our way up to Kiwanis Park to play some sports. We started out with Wiffle Ball, and then finished it up with football. The only problem is that I am really bad at sports. So why did I choose to play them on my birthday, even if I did get some sweet bruises to show off for it? Shouldn't I be doing something I'm good at, since I get all the attention on that day? Wouldn't you think that I would want to do anything besides embarrass myself?
Well here's the thing:
I don't care.
You see, I would have loved to have a Karaoke/Dance party for my birthday (not that I'm great at those, either), but I didn't want it to be all about me. Contrary to popular belief, I do not like to be the center of attention. I just about melted into the ground when they sang one of the Primary birthday songs to me at ward prayer (I never know what to do with my eyes!). But seriously, I wanted to do something that everyone who was coming would enjoy.
Also I knew no boys would come to my party if we danced ;)
We did have a miniature dance party at about 10 last night, though, so it satisfied that desire pretty well. But the main point is (and I realized this as I tried to make Scott understand why I find dancing such a wonderful thing) that it doesn't much matter what I'm doing, as long as I'm with people I love. And I certainly was surrounded by them yesterday.
I mean, I embarrassed myself and probably struck out three times in Wiffle Ball before I got a hit, but since I was the birthday girl, they didn't make all the rules apply to me. I figured it was a fair sacrifice. I make a fool of myself on my birthday, and they let me swing at the ball 20 times. Perfect.
I was extremely grateful for all my friends who spent basically the entire day with me yesterday. I felt loved and appreciated and special all day! So if you were a part of that and you're reading this, thank you so much. It certainly was a fantastic day to be alive.
Today, however, I am not doing too well. You see, last night we had FHE at the Cleggs' home again. And you'd think I would have learned my lesson and stopped jumping on the trampoline. But I guess I'm a glutton for pain (you may recall that I hyperextended my knee last time). That just left me a little bit sore for a couple of days. This time I may have done some more permanent damage, which scares me.
You see, I guess I just wanted to do something crazy. Probably on some level I thought more talent would come with age, so I tried to do a backflip. So much for the "wiser, too" part of being one year older.
You see, I had, after a few attempts, mastered the art of the front flip, and it was quite the rush! I was an adrenaline junkie. I wanted more. I needed more! So I tried the backflip. This kid in my ward, Andrew, is a gymnast and was kind of training me a little bit on how to make sure my head went back like it was supposed to, but when I tried it for real, it didn't actually happen. I landed on my neck with my feet behind my head, rear-end up in the air and all. Also I was about halfway off the trampoline. Andrew rushed over and as I lay on the ground his eyes got huge and he was like, "Are you okay?!" Poor thing, he looked scared to death. I had the wind knocked out of me for a minute so I just held up my finger and finally said, "Uh, I think so. . . One second." And then I could breathe again and all was well. My back actually felt really great. I'm always good at popping my lower back, but my upper back is always really tight. Well not anymore. I felt brand new, better than ever before last night. But scared out of my socks to try a backflip ever again. . . at least for a couple of months.
Anyway, I woke up this morning so stiff. If it is still hurting on Thursday I will probably go in and get it checked, just because I'm afraid I've made a huge mistake. It's a good thing my textbooks are all the size of small novels, or else I wouldn't have been able to carry my backpack today. I can't believe how much pain I am in.
Anyway, enough of the complaining; today and this week are going to be fabulous. I am determined to make it so! Plus I'm counting on the Lord to continue blessing me as abundantly as he has been these past two weeks especially. He has been looking out for me and guiding me in the direction I need to go. Now it is up to me to give up on my own sense of direction and rely on His.
I know He'll take care of me; I am His daughter and He loves me!
First of all, the attempt to go a whole day without talking with my hands was ruined in the first thirty minutes on my walk to school. I just couldn't do it.
Also, my birthday was on Sunday! I had a great day, except for the stomachache I had at the end because everyone provided birthday desserts instead of birthday meals. But you know what? It was worth it. I realized, yet again, that I am loved! I also discovered that people show me love through food, which is just too bad for my gut. But oh, that crème brulée. . . .
Yesterday, though, was the real party. At 2:00, we gathered at my apartment and eventually made our way up to Kiwanis Park to play some sports. We started out with Wiffle Ball, and then finished it up with football. The only problem is that I am really bad at sports. So why did I choose to play them on my birthday, even if I did get some sweet bruises to show off for it? Shouldn't I be doing something I'm good at, since I get all the attention on that day? Wouldn't you think that I would want to do anything besides embarrass myself?
Well here's the thing:
I don't care.
You see, I would have loved to have a Karaoke/Dance party for my birthday (not that I'm great at those, either), but I didn't want it to be all about me. Contrary to popular belief, I do not like to be the center of attention. I just about melted into the ground when they sang one of the Primary birthday songs to me at ward prayer (I never know what to do with my eyes!). But seriously, I wanted to do something that everyone who was coming would enjoy.
Also I knew no boys would come to my party if we danced ;)
We did have a miniature dance party at about 10 last night, though, so it satisfied that desire pretty well. But the main point is (and I realized this as I tried to make Scott understand why I find dancing such a wonderful thing) that it doesn't much matter what I'm doing, as long as I'm with people I love. And I certainly was surrounded by them yesterday.
I mean, I embarrassed myself and probably struck out three times in Wiffle Ball before I got a hit, but since I was the birthday girl, they didn't make all the rules apply to me. I figured it was a fair sacrifice. I make a fool of myself on my birthday, and they let me swing at the ball 20 times. Perfect.
I was extremely grateful for all my friends who spent basically the entire day with me yesterday. I felt loved and appreciated and special all day! So if you were a part of that and you're reading this, thank you so much. It certainly was a fantastic day to be alive.
Today, however, I am not doing too well. You see, last night we had FHE at the Cleggs' home again. And you'd think I would have learned my lesson and stopped jumping on the trampoline. But I guess I'm a glutton for pain (you may recall that I hyperextended my knee last time). That just left me a little bit sore for a couple of days. This time I may have done some more permanent damage, which scares me.
You see, I guess I just wanted to do something crazy. Probably on some level I thought more talent would come with age, so I tried to do a backflip. So much for the "wiser, too" part of being one year older.
You see, I had, after a few attempts, mastered the art of the front flip, and it was quite the rush! I was an adrenaline junkie. I wanted more. I needed more! So I tried the backflip. This kid in my ward, Andrew, is a gymnast and was kind of training me a little bit on how to make sure my head went back like it was supposed to, but when I tried it for real, it didn't actually happen. I landed on my neck with my feet behind my head, rear-end up in the air and all. Also I was about halfway off the trampoline. Andrew rushed over and as I lay on the ground his eyes got huge and he was like, "Are you okay?!" Poor thing, he looked scared to death. I had the wind knocked out of me for a minute so I just held up my finger and finally said, "Uh, I think so. . . One second." And then I could breathe again and all was well. My back actually felt really great. I'm always good at popping my lower back, but my upper back is always really tight. Well not anymore. I felt brand new, better than ever before last night. But scared out of my socks to try a backflip ever again. . . at least for a couple of months.
Anyway, I woke up this morning so stiff. If it is still hurting on Thursday I will probably go in and get it checked, just because I'm afraid I've made a huge mistake. It's a good thing my textbooks are all the size of small novels, or else I wouldn't have been able to carry my backpack today. I can't believe how much pain I am in.
Anyway, enough of the complaining; today and this week are going to be fabulous. I am determined to make it so! Plus I'm counting on the Lord to continue blessing me as abundantly as he has been these past two weeks especially. He has been looking out for me and guiding me in the direction I need to go. Now it is up to me to give up on my own sense of direction and rely on His.
I know He'll take care of me; I am His daughter and He loves me!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I fear crack-stepping. And it's nothing to do with drugs.
If you know me, you understand that the trip back to childhood is not as long as it is for most (I would say "for everyone else," but my ex-roommate Mary taught me that she's closer to childhood than I am).
I watch the Disney Channel, I love cartoons, Disney movies (I always ask for them on my birthdays and holidays. And all throughout May.), I know every line of The Little Rascals, I still sit on Mama's lap sometimes, I sleep with my teddy bear that I've had for almost 15 years (and I have no shame admitting that. Another childish attribute? I think so), I love coloring books, Red Rover, Duck Duck Goose, and naptime, and I don't step on the cracks.
Now that last childhood habit makes me chuckle, for I learned long ago through a frightening truth-or-dare experience that stepping on the cracks does not, in fact, break one's mother's back. On the other hand, sitting on her lap might do that some day. But at any rate, if this is the case, why do I still walk so awkwardly, taking extra big (or extra small) steps to avoid my foot's falling on a crack in the sidewalk? I'm sure I look ridiculous; I walk to school fairly quickly, yet even in the rush to get to class or work, I take the time to watch where my feet are in relation to the sidewalk cracks and adjust my steps accordingly.
Today I happened to walk behind a girl who I discovered to be a fellow fearer of crack-stepping For the purposes of this blog, we will call such people "Anti-Crackers."
. . . Actually we won't. Bad idea, sorry.
Anyway, as I paid attention to my own steps (which I made sure were perfectly synchronized with hers, and still matching the tempo of the song that was stuck in my head at the time--yes, I have a marching band geek still lodged in my soul), I realized that she, too, was adjusting every 3 or 4 steps to be long or small enough to avoid stepping on the cracks. I smiled to myself, happy that I'm not the only one who is quirky like that.
I thought about it the rest of my way to work, trying to assign some sort of meaning to it. Like, perhaps we do, on some level, feel like we are protecting our mothers from harm when we avoid those sidewalk cracks. I mean to say that we take absolute control of a situation that has been laid at our feet (at least that much is literal), hoping that by our perfection in such an insignificant matter, we may have the confidence necessary to influence and change something that is significant--for example, the well-being of our mothers' backs.
. . . But then I learned that sidewalk crack avoidance is a symptom of OCD.
And I suppose that makes some sense as well.
I watch the Disney Channel, I love cartoons, Disney movies (I always ask for them on my birthdays and holidays. And all throughout May.), I know every line of The Little Rascals, I still sit on Mama's lap sometimes, I sleep with my teddy bear that I've had for almost 15 years (and I have no shame admitting that. Another childish attribute? I think so), I love coloring books, Red Rover, Duck Duck Goose, and naptime, and I don't step on the cracks.
Now that last childhood habit makes me chuckle, for I learned long ago through a frightening truth-or-dare experience that stepping on the cracks does not, in fact, break one's mother's back. On the other hand, sitting on her lap might do that some day. But at any rate, if this is the case, why do I still walk so awkwardly, taking extra big (or extra small) steps to avoid my foot's falling on a crack in the sidewalk? I'm sure I look ridiculous; I walk to school fairly quickly, yet even in the rush to get to class or work, I take the time to watch where my feet are in relation to the sidewalk cracks and adjust my steps accordingly.
Today I happened to walk behind a girl who I discovered to be a fellow fearer of crack-stepping For the purposes of this blog, we will call such people "Anti-Crackers."
. . . Actually we won't. Bad idea, sorry.
Anyway, as I paid attention to my own steps (which I made sure were perfectly synchronized with hers, and still matching the tempo of the song that was stuck in my head at the time--yes, I have a marching band geek still lodged in my soul), I realized that she, too, was adjusting every 3 or 4 steps to be long or small enough to avoid stepping on the cracks. I smiled to myself, happy that I'm not the only one who is quirky like that.
I thought about it the rest of my way to work, trying to assign some sort of meaning to it. Like, perhaps we do, on some level, feel like we are protecting our mothers from harm when we avoid those sidewalk cracks. I mean to say that we take absolute control of a situation that has been laid at our feet (at least that much is literal), hoping that by our perfection in such an insignificant matter, we may have the confidence necessary to influence and change something that is significant--for example, the well-being of our mothers' backs.
. . . But then I learned that sidewalk crack avoidance is a symptom of OCD.
And I suppose that makes some sense as well.
My life be like. . .
School started yesterday, and so far I've managed to make it to campus before 8 o'clock for two days in a row! Woot.
This is going to be a pretty difficult semester. I'm taking great classes that I know I'm going to love, but I'll have to work really hard. But I'm ready! . . . Not really, but I have to be since it's already here. So whatever. Bring it.
But the 8 AM classes aren't the only things challenging me this week.
You see, Jazlyn and I decided yesterday that I need to do a little experiment, which I will most likely perform tomorrow.
As we walked home from school yesterday, she stopped me in the middle of a story I was telling and said, "Katelyn, I want you to try and talk without using your hands."
I laughed, being the good-natured person that I am, and decided to give it a try.
I failed miserably.
Sure, I kept my hands unmoving by my side, but I could not get a coherent sentence out of my mouth for my life! I think I was just thinking about it too hard, but we'll see.
The plan is that tomorrow I will not use any form of hand gestures (this includes my black-girl snap, going on and brushing my shoulders off, and any other gestures meant to emphasize, aid in the speaking of, or form the shape of any words I say; the only exception is that we won't count waving to people against me). This may prove difficult, though, as I am contemplating adding an ASL class. I will record my success (or failure, whichever the case may be) in another post tomorrow or whenever I have the time. Wish me luck!
This is going to be a pretty difficult semester. I'm taking great classes that I know I'm going to love, but I'll have to work really hard. But I'm ready! . . . Not really, but I have to be since it's already here. So whatever. Bring it.
But the 8 AM classes aren't the only things challenging me this week.
You see, Jazlyn and I decided yesterday that I need to do a little experiment, which I will most likely perform tomorrow.
As we walked home from school yesterday, she stopped me in the middle of a story I was telling and said, "Katelyn, I want you to try and talk without using your hands."
I laughed, being the good-natured person that I am, and decided to give it a try.
I failed miserably.
Sure, I kept my hands unmoving by my side, but I could not get a coherent sentence out of my mouth for my life! I think I was just thinking about it too hard, but we'll see.
The plan is that tomorrow I will not use any form of hand gestures (this includes my black-girl snap, going on and brushing my shoulders off, and any other gestures meant to emphasize, aid in the speaking of, or form the shape of any words I say; the only exception is that we won't count waving to people against me). This may prove difficult, though, as I am contemplating adding an ASL class. I will record my success (or failure, whichever the case may be) in another post tomorrow or whenever I have the time. Wish me luck!
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