Oh dear god, I’ve finally reached the end of these old blog posts (the ones I wished to actually keep). Here you have it–post number six of six that I have pulled from the murky depths of my former blog, washed off, and set here.

This one is from 2006. Pause with me to see if you can remember it. Back before our hovercrafts and our robot nannies. Back when we still lived on the ground. Before our food was given to us in the form of small, flavored pills. Ah, 2006. How I faintly remember what a tree looked like.

Okay, moving on. Here’s my final post of yesteryear, a snippet of me in 2006. I give you Origin of the Phrase “Nose to the Grindstone”:

The phrase “put your nose to the grindstone” is commonly used today to mean “get to work.” Its origin has been traced back 5,000 years (by the etymological research department of UCLA) to when humanity relied on grindstones to sharpen all their tools, teeth, and household items. Carpenters of yore had made a startling finding about the sedimentary stone sandstone, and thus began using it solely to make the grindstones that sharpened their tools and other items.

The properties of sandstone were first discovered by renowned carpenter and gymnast William Van Metermeyer, who unearthed the fact that the stone, when grinding against something else, gave off a surprisingly invigorating lavender aroma (for which the stone is now best known). Carpenters began using it to build grindstones, because they found that it helped them to better focus and to stay more alert. When they would begin to feel fatigued, they would simply put their noses close to the grindstone and inhale the scent of the stone for energy, and then get back to work (hence the phrase).

As a related side note, this was also the birth of the popular new age practice of aromatherapy.

…this is all true.

Confession Session

December 30, 2010

My Confession.

I am confessing something of which I am honestly deeply ashamed and embarrassed (and there are precious few of these) in the hopes that my public contrition may bring about a better new year than this last medical and emotional sinkhole of a year. Chronic migraines—yeah you.

So, here it is. The only thing I’ve ever stolen from a store since being old enough to know better: a set of fake eyelashes. I stole fake eyelashes from a makeup store I shan’t name back when I was in college.

But at least her lashes were perfect.

Now, I should tell you—because I feel this is very important—I think stealing is deplorable. Truly, I can’t stand it. If you are my friend and with me when you steal something, I will be angry at you for a very, very long time for simply doing it in my company. I probably won’t ever go shopping with you again.

And I thought it was just as loathsome when I did it. In fact, I couldn’t wear them for 3 years after I stole them, I felt so guilty. So guilty immediately after I stole them that I wound around the store for half an hour afterward trying to think up some crazy scheme to put them back without being pinched for it. But I didn’t.

So, what prompted this minor act of terrorism against a maquillage Mecca (which, again, I shall not name)? I mean, for crying out loud, it wasn’t even anything I needed. I have eyelashes of my own. I do. They’re neat.

(Representative of my actual eyelashes)

For whatever reason, a sudden and ill-advised spontaneity seized my conscience, and I put the thing directly into my purse. From conception to action, it was about 5 seconds. Like a knee-jerk reaction to a stray thought. And then I politely purchased my three other items at the counter…

And for this inconsiderate theft, I’m truly tremendously sorry. I think about this often, actually. It was stupid, and pointless, and flatly wrong. I am not a bad person, but that is an instance of me doing a bad thing.

So, there you are. The humiliating confession of an (outwardly, at least) ethics-hound. I was a criminal too, once.

Now bring on my good new year. And a stunning New Year to all of you too, darlings!

Both of you.