Every now and again I wonder to myself what people would think if they saw what was going on inside my house. For example:
My kitchen looks like a hobo has been using it to hoard random items found on the street. Shoes that don't match, one mitten, three weeks worth of mail piled up and falling off the table. Dishes in the sink. Stuff like that. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Then there's me. I just walked four miles with that crazy Leslie Sansone wearing shorts and two-toned blue knee high socks and sneakers. My hair was plastered back in a pony tail and helped out by two bobby pins in my bangs. Classic Revenge of the Nerds look. The knee socks gave my legs the appearance of lumpy white stuffed sausages.If someone had rang the doorbell, I would have hid. Now that that's over, I've shucked off the knee socks and started to color my hair starting with just the roots for 20 minutes so I look a lot like Medusa on a bad day. And I'm sitting in front of the computer eating a burrito from Taco Bell (left over from last night.) It's all so weird and random.
On another rambling note, I posted this on facebook and I'll say it again:
Dear Men/Boys/Anyone of the Male Gender,
It is Never ok for you to wear "skinny jeans." And unless you are the actual original Lone Ranger, it is also never ok to tuck your pants into your boots. Never. Ever.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Information Overload - Out With The Old, Out With The New
My brain has become so full of information lately that it no longer stores things neatly in files to be found later. The clerk inside my head who processes information is so busy that she hasn't gone home to eat or sleep in weeks. I picture her as Madam Trelawney in the Harry Potter movies.
Instead of the neatly filed drawers in alphabetical order, there is now just a huge in-bin with papers cascading to the floor. Sad really.
What's sadder is that I have full confidence that this system will magically work when I need it too. For example: Yesterday, at one of my jobs, I had the pleasure of learning a new task. I enjoyed this new task very much. However, it taxed Madam Trelawney to no end. Not only did my new task involve math, which both I and Madam Trelawney hate more than screaming babies, but it also involved me having to try to remember where an entire warehouse of ingredients was stored.
I bet you think I'm kidding. I assure you I am not. It was like playing an all day game of Memory, which I also hate. I would ask a co-worker "Where is the Energy Boost?" and they would explain in full detail where in the warehouse to find it. Then I would say "Ok, well, where is the epsom salt?" And they would explain that also. While they were explaining that, Madam Trelawney would throw down the information containing the whereabouts of the Engergy Boost and begin to furiously scribble down directions to the epsom salt. By the time we got to the warehouse, she had forgotton where she put that also. I would forgive her and look for a mysterious third ingredient in hopes that I would just happen upon the missing first two in my search.
Some of the ingredients I searched for had no label and some had a label named something different than what was written down. (Me: Where is the biotin? Co-Worker: Oh, that's in the bin labeled "magnesium sulphate." Of course it is.) I felt like I was trapped in the Legend of Zelda, where you search for stupid Zelda all day long but no one ever really finds her. In the end, you die jumping over something pointy and have to start all over at the beginning. I did level up and gain an extra life after I successfully remembered where the red rumensin pellets where.
All of this was a challenge, and yet, at Thanksgiving, when my sister was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't find the envelope containing her employment papers for her new job, I clearly recalled that she told me the week before that it was in her van. This is info I did not need to retain, but somehow, I did. Well done Madam Trelawney.
Instead of the neatly filed drawers in alphabetical order, there is now just a huge in-bin with papers cascading to the floor. Sad really.
What's sadder is that I have full confidence that this system will magically work when I need it too. For example: Yesterday, at one of my jobs, I had the pleasure of learning a new task. I enjoyed this new task very much. However, it taxed Madam Trelawney to no end. Not only did my new task involve math, which both I and Madam Trelawney hate more than screaming babies, but it also involved me having to try to remember where an entire warehouse of ingredients was stored.
I bet you think I'm kidding. I assure you I am not. It was like playing an all day game of Memory, which I also hate. I would ask a co-worker "Where is the Energy Boost?" and they would explain in full detail where in the warehouse to find it. Then I would say "Ok, well, where is the epsom salt?" And they would explain that also. While they were explaining that, Madam Trelawney would throw down the information containing the whereabouts of the Engergy Boost and begin to furiously scribble down directions to the epsom salt. By the time we got to the warehouse, she had forgotton where she put that also. I would forgive her and look for a mysterious third ingredient in hopes that I would just happen upon the missing first two in my search.
Some of the ingredients I searched for had no label and some had a label named something different than what was written down. (Me: Where is the biotin? Co-Worker: Oh, that's in the bin labeled "magnesium sulphate." Of course it is.) I felt like I was trapped in the Legend of Zelda, where you search for stupid Zelda all day long but no one ever really finds her. In the end, you die jumping over something pointy and have to start all over at the beginning. I did level up and gain an extra life after I successfully remembered where the red rumensin pellets where.
All of this was a challenge, and yet, at Thanksgiving, when my sister was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't find the envelope containing her employment papers for her new job, I clearly recalled that she told me the week before that it was in her van. This is info I did not need to retain, but somehow, I did. Well done Madam Trelawney.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Drama-Cat: Gladys Goes To the Vet
Today was that magical day that happens once a year. No, not Christmas. It was Take Gladys To The Vet Day. Every year we start warning her and taunting her about it weeks ahead of time.
"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.
Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.
On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.
When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way. So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.
Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.
Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself. Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.
This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light. He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in. We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.
At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on. Then she started peppering the yowls with growls. I turned the radio up louder. She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.
At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.
Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.
And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)
"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.
Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.
Here is the usual silliness we are forced to put up with.
On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.
When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way. So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.
Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.
Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself. Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.
This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light. He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in. We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.
At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on. Then she started peppering the yowls with growls. I turned the radio up louder. She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.
At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.
Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.
And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)
The queen setting majestically on her Victorian couch.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My Version of the National Poverty Level
According to the newspaper, my husband and I are a mere 2 kids away from falling below the National Poverty Level, or NPL as I like to call it. NPL makes it sound more like a sport, like NBA or NFL or NRA.
Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.
I believe my version to be more accurate.
You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.
2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.
3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.
4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."
5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.
6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.
7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.
8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.
Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.
I believe my version to be more accurate.
(This is my family in the 1940's making apple butter in their backyard. I might be poor but I get it honest.)
You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.
2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.
3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.
4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."
5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.
6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.
7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.
8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.
(This has healed nicely on its own since the picture was taken and yes, that really is my arm and I really didn't go to the doctor.)
9. Your front bike tire went flat two months ago and your husband still hasn't fixed it. - Oh wait. That falls under "Cheap and Simple Repairs Your Husband Could Do But Just Conveniently Forgets To Do."
Welcome to the NPL. Go Team Poverty!
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Pro's & Con's of Running
In the past few years I have gone from fitness fanatic to world class couch potato. Running was my exercise of choice followed closely by whatever workout they were doing on FitTv or Lifetime in the morning. For years without fail, I would wake up and do Fit & Lite with Denise Austin. Then Lifetime took her away. Gilad kept me trim and limber on the FitTv Channel until Directv ditched it. Then my dog died and I ditched running. It was an easy transition into slobdom. Pass the Doritos please.
Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:
Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.
Con's to running:
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.
Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.
Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:
Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.
Con's to running:
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.
Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Funeral Crasher
So there I sat this past Saturday morning, enjoying the epic cheesiness of "Eclipse" (thank you Netflix) when I got a phone call from Walt, my unofficial personal assistant. He was calling to let me know that my great-aunt's funeral was that day at 11 o'clock. I found out at 9:45am.
He said he had left a message on my answering machine about the viewing (the night before apparently) which my machine failed to relay to me. This made me wonder how many other important calls my machine has not given me.
"Kelly? Ed McMahon here. You won the million dollar sweepstakes..."
Walt was unsure of the exact whereabouts of the funeral but he did know it was at 11. There are only 350 small churches in our community. I felt that I should make the effort to go, and besides, where two or more of my dad's family is gathered, usually a good time follows. I was sure I could find it.
So I raced to the shower (after I finished watching the Cullens defeat the army of newborns and discuss Bella's future with the Volturi) and was on my way. The first church I stopped at had only two cars in the parking lot, neither of which was a hearse.
I tried calling my dad on my sister's old trac phone with 29 seconds left on it. Since there is barely any service in our area I had to drive further down the road just to make the call. It went to voice mail. He was apparently already at the funeral which was surprising since he is notoriously late for everything. I kept driving. I even tried calling my gram to see if she had a newspaper with the obit in it. I think I got her out of bed. 10:50am is sort of early for her.
Three churches and 35 minutes later, I was getting uncomfortable. The vintage dress I was wearing (which fit 5 years ago but not so much anymore) was giving me the vapors from having to suck in my gut. My pantyhose (how OLD FASHIONED!) made me feel like I was wearing long johns because it was a very hot day. I should point out that the purpose of the pantyhose was to cover up the fact that I was too hurried to shave my legs and to give the appearance of a fake suntan.
I had pretty much given up on finding the funeral when I fell in line with some white cars doing about 20 in a 55 speed zone. Could this be the funeral procession? I was ready to turn on my hazard lights when I realized that it was just a string of old people driving. ARRRRRR!!!!
So I pulled over in a corn field and shucked off the pantyhose and unbuttoned the middle of my dress to let my gut hang out. Oh sweet relief. The white car drivers were going so slow that I caught up to them again.
I decided to call it a day and just head home. That's when I passed a church with a full parking lot AND a hearse. So I stopped. And almost got out of the car half dressed. It's a good thing I looked down to find my purse. I put myself back together but there was no way I wrestling the hose back on in a church parking lot. Houdini I'm not. No wonder no one wears those things anymore.
Quietly I snuck in the church, and slid into the back pew, hoping this was the right funeral. I decided that no matter whose it was, I was going to stay and if anyone asked how I knew the deceased, I was just going to say they used to be my Sunday School teacher. Even if he/she was the town drunk, that was my story and I was sticking to it. Turns out I was at the right church - I could see the back of my aunt's head.
While I was sitting there I also had an epiphany. This winter, when I'm tired of the ramen noodles, I'm just going to go to random funerals and stay for the meal. I could potentially be eating ham and green beans every day for free. Eventually someone will be clever enough to write a screen play about this and when they do, I want you to remember who came up with the idea first.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
To Bee or Not To Bee (Stung)
Yesterday, while I was working on job #1 (if you don't know what job #1 is, click here) we were barreling down the highway on the chipper and my face and a yellow jacket happened to collide.
Normally the bees and I have worked out an exchange of etiquette that goes something like this:
1. The bee (I used that term loosely, it could be a yellow jacket, a wasp, a honey bee, a bumble bee, etc.) hits my face or body.
2. The bee politely excuses itself. Oh excuse me, I didn't see you there.
3. I excuse myself. No, pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude.
4. The bee and I exchanges brief pleasantries in a British accent. Quite alright, quite alright. Lovely weather we're having today, yes? Oh my yes, quite lovely. I'm so sorry to have bumped into you so rudely. Here is my card if you need anything. Thank you very much, You have a smashing day now, no pun intended. Ha ha, a witty one you are. Yes you have a jolly good day yourself.
5. Then the bee flies on it's way and I go about on mine. Neither of us are injured, just a bit shook up.
But yesterday the bee I rear-ended with my face had no time for such silliness. In fact, I suspect that the bee happened to be flying the same direction we were and we just overcame it, causing it's stinger to go directly into my face causing shock, pain and panic for both parties.
We hit each other so hard I barely had time to see the bright yellow stripes of its yellow jacket before it went careening off to the side and crash landed in parts unknown. It hurt like the dickens.
Normally, my face looks like this:
Occasionally, my face looks like this:
Normally the bees and I have worked out an exchange of etiquette that goes something like this:
1. The bee (I used that term loosely, it could be a yellow jacket, a wasp, a honey bee, a bumble bee, etc.) hits my face or body.
2. The bee politely excuses itself. Oh excuse me, I didn't see you there.
3. I excuse myself. No, pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude.
4. The bee and I exchanges brief pleasantries in a British accent. Quite alright, quite alright. Lovely weather we're having today, yes? Oh my yes, quite lovely. I'm so sorry to have bumped into you so rudely. Here is my card if you need anything. Thank you very much, You have a smashing day now, no pun intended. Ha ha, a witty one you are. Yes you have a jolly good day yourself.
5. Then the bee flies on it's way and I go about on mine. Neither of us are injured, just a bit shook up.
But yesterday the bee I rear-ended with my face had no time for such silliness. In fact, I suspect that the bee happened to be flying the same direction we were and we just overcame it, causing it's stinger to go directly into my face causing shock, pain and panic for both parties.
We hit each other so hard I barely had time to see the bright yellow stripes of its yellow jacket before it went careening off to the side and crash landed in parts unknown. It hurt like the dickens.
Normally, my face looks like this:
Occasionally, my face looks like this:
But this morning....my face looked like this:
I am smiling with both sides of my mouth, but the left side of my face was puffed to capacity and did not allow any room for upward movement of my lips. My left nostril was also swollen which pushed my nose askew to the right. My top lip was swelled up too. If you think this is acceptable, scroll back to the first picture. Then come back down here. Then laugh heartily because I sure did when I looked in the mirror this morning.
My Resume. Sort of. Incase You Ever Wondered.
For those who read my blog regularly, you may sometimes ask yourself, "What exactly is it that Kelly does? I mean, sometimes she's poverty stricken but then she talks about being a church secretary and then she tells stories about traveling around to work. So what gives? What the heck does this Kelly character do?"
When people say to me "So, what do you do?" The only answer that makes sense to give them is "Oh, lots of things." Other times I just say that I'm self employed. It would take all day to tell them about all my jobs. So for those who were curious, here it is:
1. I work with a tar & chip crew. You know- those people you hate who lay down tar & cover it with stone & then you complain and drive 10mph on it even though it's rolled and packed tight- I'm part of the group responsible for your misery. This is a sometimes job that usually takes up most of my summer months. I was just off to a slow start with it this year. I sometimes wonder if the company I work for even knows they hired me because I've only ever met one office person. But she handed me a hard hat and a safety vest and I get paid so I can only assume that they are aware of me.
2. I'm a church secretary. I do this every week, all year long. Even during tar & chip season. I print out bulletins and when there is a typo or blooper, it's my bad.
3. I am a contract quilter. That is- I hand quilt for others. This does NOT mean that I do all the patchwork. Nay, I don't do any. What I do is, people bring me their quilt tops that they've sewn together. I put the top, the batting (the stuffing in the middle) and the bottom together in a frame and hand quilt the sucker. It takes months. And that's if I work at it all day every day.
4. I am a writer, occasionally. And sometimes, I even get paid for it. This is a whenever job. Whenever the need pops up and someone needs me to write something I do.
5. I work at a Feed Mill. This is a sometimes job. Sometimes they need me and sometimes they don't. I usually answer the phones and re-set the computer wallpaper to ornery things. I went to school with the guy whose desk & computer I borrow so it's a lot of fun for me to mess around with his settings and then watch from a distance as he goes ballistic when he discovers it. That's my main purpose at the mill. To spread chaos. But sometimes, during corn season when all the farmers are bringing in corn, I get to weigh the trucks and run the skid loader. I have to say, running the skid loader all evening long for weeks might be one of the funnest jobs I've ever had. And I don't know why. It's un-explainable.
6. I house-sit for people. This is also an occasional job. I water their plants, feed their dogs, cats and/or chickens. I bring in the mail and the newspaper. I do whatever it is they want me to do while they are gone. My clients are confidential. Mainly I do this for people who live close to me. The further you live from me, the more expensive I am.
The busiest week of my life was a few weeks ago when I was doing jobs 2-6 and got the call that I'd also be starting job #1. Sometimes juggling six jobs can be a challenge.
I bet your thinking "Wow, you work all the time. You must be a billionaire." Au contraire. At the end of the day, I am merely tired but no richer than when I woke up. But I can honestly say, I love all my jobs. I have fun at every single one of them. I have met more people and done more things since I've begun this streak of wild and crazy employment than I ever would have if I had stayed tied to my cubicle like a good girl. And now you know what it is that I do.
Every day is an adventure for me. Stay tuned.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
GPS, Grand Pandemonium Strategem
I noticed last week, while carpooling with my co-worker Walt, that he was no longer looking out his windshield and using the road to see where we were going. Instead he was watching his GPS screen and swerving when it indicated a bend in the road.
Since he was kind enough to pick me up AND pack a lunch for me, I tried not to pick on him too much about it. But I did draw the line when he tried to veer off into a local farm.
“But it’s showing me I’m going to turn right,” he said.
“Yes, you are but not right now. This is a farm and that is a barn. Don’t even look at this anymore, you don’t need it.” I said, covering up the GPS screen.
At the end of the work day we needed to find our way home. Immediately after turning onto the highway, Walt turned on the GPS. This was good because I was not sure where we were at the moment either. Because I’m lazy, I’m going to switch the speaking format now because I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of punctuation.
Female GPS Voice: “Turn right onto Kline Road”
Me: Walt, this is a dirt road- we tar & chipped back this way last year. We go up past that farm where the road does a 90 degree turn between the barn & the house.
Walt: Oh yeah! I remember that! I thought this looked familiar. Let’s see where it takes us.
Feeling eager for a new adventure, I agreed. Plus when you’re the passenger in someone else’s car, there’s really no point in arguing- you’re pretty much trapped. We twisted and turned back a dirt lane, between a barn and a house. Then the GPS gave us our next move.
GPS: “Turn left onto Geiger Lane."
Me: I know we did this road for sure last year. Remember, we had that new kid on the roller and everyone kept forgetting to tell him which road we were doing next?
Walt: Oh yeah!
Me: Why is it taking us this way?
Walt: I don’t know.
GPS: “Turn left onto Culligan Road.”
Me: HAHAHAHA! What the heck? This feels to me like we’re making a big loop.
Walt: It sure does. (Walt is a man of few words. Sometimes.)
GPS: “Turn left onto Stoystown Road.”
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!!! WALT!! THIS IS THE ROAD WE STARTED ON!! HAHAHAHA!!! (Gasp for air) WE JUST MADE A HUGE LOOP!!
Walt: Hate when that happens.
Me: Why did it take us the whole way through the country side!?? (Followed by more peals of laughter from me.) Why didn’t it just say “Turn your car around Idiot, you’re going the WRONG WAY??!!”
Walt: I don’t know.
Me: (More laughing and eye wiping for the next 34 miles.)
On another occasion last year when there were more of us carpooling to work, we were using the GPS to find our way to Ligonier. We almost made it. Then suddenly, the GPS told us to turn right. We turned right although Granny (another co-worker riding with us) was adamant about the fact that we should have turned left. After a few rambling miles that made no sense to us, Walt asked to see the GPS. He pushed some buttons and after a few moments asked Bill (our taxi driver that day) if he lived in Such-N-Such Corner. Bill said yes he did. Walt deduced that the GPS was no longer taking us to Ligonier but back to Bill's house.
Granny was right. We should have turned left. We were late for work that day.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The Secret Lives of Dogs and Cats
Today before I left for work (at a new job which this is only the second day of) I gave Briggs, my Old English Sheepdog puppy very specific instructions. 1. Don't Chase Cars. 2. Don't Chase People. 3. Stay OFF the road. Then I left for work.
He likes to follow people home and they are all too nice to him. If one would scream at him in a very Alpha Female/Male voice, he would get the picture and go lay down. But no one ever wants to shriek at my dog because he looks like a walking mop so instead, he follows them home. Their only choice is to put him in our basement to await our return. Usually I remember to lock the basement door that leads to the kitchen, not to keep people out, but to keep Briggs from pushing it open and entering the house. Usually. But today I forgot.
When I returned around 1:30 he was nowhere to be found. I opened up the door and walked into the house. And surmising from what I found inside, this is how I imagine his day went.
6:15am - Kiss Mom goodbye & send her to work.
6:20am - Chew deer skull on the porch
6:22am- Drag rug out into the dewy grass. Pee on it.
6:25am - Finish eating breakfast. Lay on the porch.
6:30-7:55am- Take nap.
7:55-8:00am- Drag peed on rug back onto porch in a rumpled up heap.
8:15am- Spy neighbor walking up the road. Romp after her.
8:20am - Follow neighbor back to the porch. Foil her attempt to keep me on the porch.
8:30am - Get put in basement by neighbor.
8:30-8:40am- Sniff the basement. Maybe pee on the rug for good measure. Find one of Dad's hats and put it on the floor.
8:40-9:00am - Lay on the recliner. Get bored.
9:01am - Check the door to the kitchen. Find it unlocked.
9:02-9:10am- Re-arrange all the kitchen rugs. During re-arrangement, knock over full watering can with water in it. Bark at it as it runs across the floor to the center of the kitchen.
9:10-9:30am- Find the pile of newspapers in the kitchen that were stacked and awaiting recycling. Take some into the living room. Take some into the dining room. Scatter some across the water puddle on the floor.
9:30-10:00am- Lay on the living room floor and read the papers. Find an old quilt on the couch. Chew the binding off of it. Take a nap.
10:00-10:30am - Take every sneaker and flip flop that Mom has and put them in different rooms. Hide one under a rug. She'll never see it there. Make it look like a shoe factory exploded.
10:30-10:45am - Tug the afghan off of the rocking chair. Knock the mug off the end table. Pee on the living room floor.
10:45-11:00am.- Bark at the cat. Chase her upstairs.
11:00-12:00 noon - Explore the spare room that was discovered while chasing the cat. Find the Christmas decorations that were in the Goodwill bag. Take them into the hall and chew them. Go back in the spare room. Grab a swim suit and hide it under a pile of winter clothes. hee hee.
12:00-12:15pm- Go in Mom & Dad's room. Poop in front of the mirror. Admire my form. Find their slippers and fling them about.
12:15-12:30pm - Discover THE BATHROOM! Drink out of the toilet - oh delight! Dunk my face in the toilet as far as it will go. Blow bubbles. Track water from my long dripping mouth hair across the entire bathroom. Drink some more, make the puddle bigger.
12:32pm - Go pee in Mom & Dad's room beside the poop pile.
12:35pm - Chase the cat under the bed. Get slapped and hissed at.
12:45pm- Find a pile of books and knock it over.
12:55-1:30pm- Take a nap in the upstairs hallway. Wake up to the sound of Mom calling for me. Run downstairs past the cat who was sitting on the steps looking disgusted about the whole mess. Get hissed at as I run past. Give Mom toilet water kisses. Get thrown back outside. Hear Mom scream something about installing an underground electric dog fence.
He likes to follow people home and they are all too nice to him. If one would scream at him in a very Alpha Female/Male voice, he would get the picture and go lay down. But no one ever wants to shriek at my dog because he looks like a walking mop so instead, he follows them home. Their only choice is to put him in our basement to await our return. Usually I remember to lock the basement door that leads to the kitchen, not to keep people out, but to keep Briggs from pushing it open and entering the house. Usually. But today I forgot.
When I returned around 1:30 he was nowhere to be found. I opened up the door and walked into the house. And surmising from what I found inside, this is how I imagine his day went.
6:15am - Kiss Mom goodbye & send her to work.
6:20am - Chew deer skull on the porch
6:22am- Drag rug out into the dewy grass. Pee on it.
6:25am - Finish eating breakfast. Lay on the porch.
6:30-7:55am- Take nap.
7:55-8:00am- Drag peed on rug back onto porch in a rumpled up heap.
8:15am- Spy neighbor walking up the road. Romp after her.
8:20am - Follow neighbor back to the porch. Foil her attempt to keep me on the porch.
8:30am - Get put in basement by neighbor.
8:30-8:40am- Sniff the basement. Maybe pee on the rug for good measure. Find one of Dad's hats and put it on the floor.
8:40-9:00am - Lay on the recliner. Get bored.
9:01am - Check the door to the kitchen. Find it unlocked.
9:02-9:10am- Re-arrange all the kitchen rugs. During re-arrangement, knock over full watering can with water in it. Bark at it as it runs across the floor to the center of the kitchen.
9:10-9:30am- Find the pile of newspapers in the kitchen that were stacked and awaiting recycling. Take some into the living room. Take some into the dining room. Scatter some across the water puddle on the floor.
9:30-10:00am- Lay on the living room floor and read the papers. Find an old quilt on the couch. Chew the binding off of it. Take a nap.
10:00-10:30am - Take every sneaker and flip flop that Mom has and put them in different rooms. Hide one under a rug. She'll never see it there. Make it look like a shoe factory exploded.
10:30-10:45am - Tug the afghan off of the rocking chair. Knock the mug off the end table. Pee on the living room floor.
10:45-11:00am.- Bark at the cat. Chase her upstairs.
11:00-12:00 noon - Explore the spare room that was discovered while chasing the cat. Find the Christmas decorations that were in the Goodwill bag. Take them into the hall and chew them. Go back in the spare room. Grab a swim suit and hide it under a pile of winter clothes. hee hee.
12:00-12:15pm- Go in Mom & Dad's room. Poop in front of the mirror. Admire my form. Find their slippers and fling them about.
12:15-12:30pm - Discover THE BATHROOM! Drink out of the toilet - oh delight! Dunk my face in the toilet as far as it will go. Blow bubbles. Track water from my long dripping mouth hair across the entire bathroom. Drink some more, make the puddle bigger.
12:32pm - Go pee in Mom & Dad's room beside the poop pile.
12:35pm - Chase the cat under the bed. Get slapped and hissed at.
12:45pm- Find a pile of books and knock it over.
12:55-1:30pm- Take a nap in the upstairs hallway. Wake up to the sound of Mom calling for me. Run downstairs past the cat who was sitting on the steps looking disgusted about the whole mess. Get hissed at as I run past. Give Mom toilet water kisses. Get thrown back outside. Hear Mom scream something about installing an underground electric dog fence.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Best of Show, Worst of Directions
This year, for the first time ever, I entered a quilt at the County Fair. I think. Using the official Premium County Fair Flyer, a special publication to help direct one clearly and concisely as to all the rules and regulations of the Fair, I was able to divulge that all entries must be turned in by 7:00pm exactly two weeks after the third full moon after Easter but only if we were celebrating the Chinese year of the Scorpion. Otherwise, all entrants should have had their stuff in already, as was communicated via mental telepathy. The official Premium County Fair Flyer, as it turns out, is actually a complex labyrinth of writing where, in classic labyrinth style, you get eaten by a Minotaur when you reach the center.
After determining that 2011 is actually the year of the Rabbit, I cross indexed my birthday with the number of stitches (estimated) in my quilt and then divided that by 15 to find out which page of the Premium County Fair Book the quilt stuff was listed under. Having no success with that process due to my lack of math skills, I was forced the read all 50 pages of the Table of Contents to find where the Senior Needlework Section was.
From there, it directed me to see Department 11-24 Rules. That was much easier to find because all I had to do was catch a Leprechaun and threaten to steal his gold and he just showed me where the Department 11-24 Rules were located. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. There was only minimal confusion reading the Department 11-24 Rules but I managed.
Then I flipped back through my Premium County Fair Encyclopedia, back to page 329 to see what category my quilt would fall under. I found it under Section 5, Class 43, Division W, Code Red, Alpha One Niner Delta, Genus cotton, Sub-Genus hand quilted. But that only applied if the quilt was not entered in any other class. Well clearly. I think. I really wanted to get this part right for fear that instead of entering a quilt, I may accidentally sign myself up for the Axe Throwing Contest, which is listed under sub-genus hand thrown.
After filling out the necessary paperwork the Oracle of Delphi must be consulted. As per page 542 B XI of the Premium County Fair Publication of Confusion and Hysteria the next step was to drive the quilt to the fair and enter it, so I did.
I went back today to see how my quilt fared (at the fair, ha ha.) It turns out I won Best of Show for rock painting and I may be a winner of the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. Score.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Enthusiast
Today I was working at my church secretary job. (Yes, God allows people with a sense of humor to work for him, don't be so shocked.) While I was there, the conversation between our pastor, Bro. Mike, and I turned to personality traits and since we both tend to enjoy letting a tangent run, it ended with me taking a test to see which one I was.
Normally I cheat at these tests to get the desired result because they are usually the same old boring test and you end up finding out if you should be a fireman, or work in forestry, or be a mathematician or be a nurse but this one was so sneakily set up that there was no way for me to cheat. (I cheat because I hate math and will do anything to avoid any kind of career that involves it. This is why I am a church secretary. Although I still deal with "Numbers" as a book of the Bible and I am totally O.K. with that.)
The test results indicated that I was probably a #7- the Enthusiast. At first I was skeptical. But I took home the background reading that went into depth on this personality type. I parked my butt on the couch and started delving into it. There were lots of things I agreed with. Like how #7's don't like rules and authority, how we like to have a bunch of different things going on at once, and how we're easily distracted but generally cheerier and more optimistic than other personalities. It went on to say that usually the Enthusiast will turn any horrible event into something positive. It also said that a #7 has no qualms about looking foolish in front of others (so true, so true) and that we can be a bit of an Entertainer. (Welcome to My Psychosis, ha ha- No- Really!!) Robin Williams is a #7. It was quite indepth and accurate.
Everything was making sense but I kept feeling irritated every time it said #7's were "scattered." Nooooo, not me buddy. I have got it to-gethuh! (Insert double finger snap and head swagger.) Scattered? I don't think so.
I was making notes in the margins and underlining things that were right on the money. That's when..... I smelled it. The smell of burning. So engrossed was I in reading about myself that I totally forgot that I was boiling potatoes for ham pot pie. They had been boiling for almost an hour and a half by themselves. The house was starting to get smokey. I don't know about the other #7's in the world, but I lose most of my 5 senses when I'm reading. Luckily my sense of smell remains vigil.
I ran in to the kitchen to find blackened mashed potatoes stuck to the bottom of my pot. This removed all doubt from my mind that I may be scattered. The proverbial scales fell from my eyes and the truth landed on me like seagull poop at the beach. I laughed so hard the dog came running to the screen door to see what the hubub was about. He likes my scattered-ness because he got to eat the burnt potatoes that I had to throw away.
So I cut up more potatoes and put more water on in a different, unburnt pot and set them on the stove. Then I went upstairs to email Bro. Mike since I thought he would get a kick out of it. This time I set the timer on the microwave so at least I'd get a reminder beep. Ten minutes later I went down to the kitchen to check the potatoes.
They were still cold. I had forgotten to turn the stove back on.
Normally I cheat at these tests to get the desired result because they are usually the same old boring test and you end up finding out if you should be a fireman, or work in forestry, or be a mathematician or be a nurse but this one was so sneakily set up that there was no way for me to cheat. (I cheat because I hate math and will do anything to avoid any kind of career that involves it. This is why I am a church secretary. Although I still deal with "Numbers" as a book of the Bible and I am totally O.K. with that.)
The test results indicated that I was probably a #7- the Enthusiast. At first I was skeptical. But I took home the background reading that went into depth on this personality type. I parked my butt on the couch and started delving into it. There were lots of things I agreed with. Like how #7's don't like rules and authority, how we like to have a bunch of different things going on at once, and how we're easily distracted but generally cheerier and more optimistic than other personalities. It went on to say that usually the Enthusiast will turn any horrible event into something positive. It also said that a #7 has no qualms about looking foolish in front of others (so true, so true) and that we can be a bit of an Entertainer. (Welcome to My Psychosis, ha ha- No- Really!!) Robin Williams is a #7. It was quite indepth and accurate.
Everything was making sense but I kept feeling irritated every time it said #7's were "scattered." Nooooo, not me buddy. I have got it to-gethuh! (Insert double finger snap and head swagger.) Scattered? I don't think so.
I was making notes in the margins and underlining things that were right on the money. That's when..... I smelled it. The smell of burning. So engrossed was I in reading about myself that I totally forgot that I was boiling potatoes for ham pot pie. They had been boiling for almost an hour and a half by themselves. The house was starting to get smokey. I don't know about the other #7's in the world, but I lose most of my 5 senses when I'm reading. Luckily my sense of smell remains vigil.
I ran in to the kitchen to find blackened mashed potatoes stuck to the bottom of my pot. This removed all doubt from my mind that I may be scattered. The proverbial scales fell from my eyes and the truth landed on me like seagull poop at the beach. I laughed so hard the dog came running to the screen door to see what the hubub was about. He likes my scattered-ness because he got to eat the burnt potatoes that I had to throw away.
So I cut up more potatoes and put more water on in a different, unburnt pot and set them on the stove. Then I went upstairs to email Bro. Mike since I thought he would get a kick out of it. This time I set the timer on the microwave so at least I'd get a reminder beep. Ten minutes later I went down to the kitchen to check the potatoes.
They were still cold. I had forgotten to turn the stove back on.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Reveling in 5K Mediocrity
Today I had the pleasure of running a 5K race (3.1 miles.) It was for a good cause and it was right here in my own neighborhood, who could say no? I’ve been a runner for several years now, however, not always a very enthusiastic one. As a result of my lack of enthusiasm for the sport, I’ve never really gained that Killer Competitive Instinct which all other runners seem to have. They will joke and laugh with you at the starting line but when the gun goes off it’s all business, take no prisoners.
My goal for the very first race I ever ran was to not die and to not come in dead last. I managed both, but just barely. I was comforted by the fact that it was largely sponsored by a doctor and backed up by the staff from our local hospital. After a few more 5K’s, I got used to racing and am no longer intimidated by the sleek, muscular legs of everybody else, or their barrage of gadgetry that makes them look professional. I don’t bat an eye when I see people wearing arm warmers or running tights. As far as races are concerned, I consider them just another workout only with more people and at a slightly faster pace. I try to put forth just enough extra effort so that my time is just marginally better than it is when I jog around on any other day. That means instead of running a mile in, say 11 minutes, I may kick it up a notch and run it in…10:55.
Even the speed of others, although enviable, does not motivate me to try harder. You would think being so far behind in the pack would become disheartening. Perish the thought. There are advantages to being pokey and here they are:
1. 1. The EMT car is usually right behind you. If you collapse they will be literally 2 seconds away. The speed weasels at the front of the pack will have to wait a heck of a lot longer for help to arrive than I will.
2. 2. You can goof off. Today I actually stopped, drank my water, walked it back to the garbage bag and waited for my friend Wendy to catch up. It was her first race ever and far be it from me to put personal success ahead of my pal. Besides, I was so slow I was certainly not setting any PR’s (Personal Record for those of you not familiar with running lingo.) The little girl handing out water was screaming for me to GO- JUST THROW IT DOWN & RUN!! (the water cup) but I was in no hurry. I should hire that little girl to be my running coach.
3. 3. The volunteers along the way give you more encouragement. I think they feel bad for me because I run so slow. I try to explain that it’s alright, I just lack the desire to try harder and they just clap and say “Good Job! Keep it Up!” anyhow because they think I’m being modest instead of truthful.
4. 4. When you finally get to the end, everyone else has already completed the race and therefore a larger crowd has congregated at the finishing chute to cheer on those who are just now arriving for the party. It makes me feel like Rose at the end of “Titanic” when she walks down the grand staircase once again and everyone on the whole dang ship has lined up to clap and cheer for her while Leonardo DeCaprio takes her hand and escorts her to the bottom. Only I’m extremely sweaty (even minimal exertion makes me sweat like a man), there’s no hot man waiting to take my hand (usually just a race volunteer who does nothing more than rip off my info at the bottom of my race bib) and Rose never bent over and threatened to throw up on her own shoes.
5. 5. Food. While the serious racers are busy pacing back and forth in front of the results, waiting and waiting to see where they placed, I’m up to my armpits in bagels and bananas. FREE GATORADE- WOO HOO!!! I pillage and plunder the free buffet while they nervously await their time. Not me, I don’t care, I’ve got a poppy seed muffin in one hand and a blueberry muffin in the other, life is good my friend.
6. 6. It boosts the self esteem of others. I figure, if there is some new person who’s never raced before, more than likely their goals are similar to what mine were the first time. (Not die, and not come in dead last.) So what I’m actually doing is helping them meet their goal. They don’t finish last, I get muffins, it’s a win/win for everyone.
7. 7. I can huff and puff as loud as I want and not have to worry about distracting the serious runners. (I have been asked by people passing me if I’m ok before. My response is usually: NO- who’s dumb idea was it to run this?!!) When I am in the back, no one can hear the loud breathing as I labor towards the finish line.
8. 8. I’m proving Newton’s third law: To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is a fact that in the world of running, some races hire what they call a “rabbit.” The job of the rabbit (which is actually a person) is to set the pace of how fast the race will go, as pre-determined by the race directors. Bet you didn’t know that, but it’s true. (“Steve, today you will be running at the speed of a gazelle about to be eaten by a cheetah.”) I won’t go into all the intricate details so if you don’t believe me, just look it up. Only the rabbit doesn’t get to finish the race. Instead they sort of disappear somewhere in the middle and you will never even notice them. But they have done their job because the competitive runners will continue running at the pace the rabbit set, unaware. I am the self appointed Turtle to the Rabbit. *Note: there is not a rabbit at every race, usually just the high profile races.* I am the opposite reaction to the rabbit. They go quick, quick like a bunny. I see their quickness and raise them one slowness. They don’t finish the race, I do. Opposite.
9. Rabbits get hit by cars more often than turtles. It's much safer to be a turtle. Turtles don't dart out into traffic. They're already in the middle of the road when you come upon them, and usually, instead of running them over, you get out of your car and try to help them along. Who doesn't love a turtle?
So if you’ve been thinking of dabbling in the weird and wonderful world of running, come- join us! If it is a race that I’m also in, I can practically guarantee that you won’t be last. And if you are, think of all the fabulous benefits listed above that come with the territory. If after some time, you also fail to develop that need for speed the majority seems to possess, my brother and sister turtles will welcome you with open arms into our shuffling community.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Dante's Inferno- Just Another Family Vacation
***DISCLAIMER****
The following blog contains me poking fun at my very dysfunctional family. This does not mean that I don't love them. It just means that we would have been a good case study on social behavior, falling under the category "What Not To Do." And remember, this was written in the spirit of fun. Or lack thereof... at the time.... So if you feel you can handle seeing deeper into my psychosis, read on. Otherwise, I urge you to try www.hyperboleandahalf.com or www.theoatmeal.com. Both of them are quite hilarious and I'm not related to them in any way and I'm certain they have no idea who I am, although I am a huge fan of both.
AND NOW.....
The other day Pop called me to discuss some things. During that discussion he said (and I quote) "...incase one of us gets incredibly rich and takes the whole family on vacation and we all die in an accident." I will not divulge the topic of our conversation since Pop is very private and also because he's certain Al-Qaeda is stalking us via the internet. Eventually my gales of laughter that had burst forth at that phrase subsided. Pop is a lot funnier than he gets credit for. First of all, as President of the Poverty Stricken, I don't forsee any of us getting rich in this lifetime. And secondly, if we did, the likelihood of a family vacation would fall somewhere between getting hit by a meteor and finding Bigfoot. He was right about one thing though - a family vacation, for us, would most likely end in death. If not by accident, then by each other's own hands.
Most remember their childhood family vacations will a rather sunny attitude. Nay, not us. Our family vacations felt more like a punishment. Sentenced to spend hours in the back seat of the car with my little sister. We hated each other. Fighting was the rule, not the exception. To be trapped in such close quarters to one another was akin to splitting the atom - there was going to be more excess energy than one Chevy station wagon could contain. This in turn, would set off a rather unfortunate chain of events.
Our car needed a sign above the doors that said "Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here" and we came to believe that our car really was a portal to hell. Here is how a typical vacation went: I would be reading a book or looking out the window. My sister would start singing, usually a nonsensical chant. It would be something designed to get my attention. Something irritating like: "You caaan't touch me, you caaaan't touch me, I've over heeeere, I'm over heeere." Ignoring her would not shut her up. My dirty looks would not shut her up. My asking her to be quiet would not shut her up. Eventually the dam would break and I would slug her.
As soon as my fist crossed the imaginary line that separated the backseat from Her Side and My Side, even before contact, she would begin shrieking and screaming. Pop would hear the commotion, even with one bad ear. His knee-jerk reaction to the howling was to END IT. Pop "ended it" by reaching into the back seat and waving his arm back and forth, frantically and desperately trying to gain purchase on one of us while keeping his other hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road. He didn't care who he got a hold of, as far as he was concerned both of us were guilty of ruining this relaxing and lovely drive to Timbuktu.
Pop's vacation persona took on that of a pirate: "The floggings will continue until morale improves." So it was, that we would see Pop's arm flying into the backseat to reach us and we would curl up our legs, lay on the floor, whatever it took to evade his Long Arm of Punishment. If he was successful and actually found one of us, we would begin bawling dramatically in hopes that Mom would intercede on our behalf, which usually worked.
Her intercession worked so well that they ended up getting into an argument with each other and forgot all about the brats in the back that started the whole thing. The argument would last for miles and miles and ended with everyone crying except Pop. Hoist the Jolly Roger, we're sailing into stormy seas, aarrrrrr.
With bullheaded perseverance that would have made Captain Ahab proud, my father forged ahead with our family vacation. I suppose "Having A Good Time" would have been his Moby Dick. And just like in the book, it just about did us all in. Call me Ishmael, for I have lived to tell the tale.
There is a scene from National Lampoon Vacation which comes to mind where Clark Griswold launches into the Fun Monologue: "Well, I'll tell you something. This is no longer a vacation! It's a quest!
It's a quest for fun. I'm going to have fun and you're going to have fun. We're all going to have so much $&% fun... ...we'll need plastic surgery to remove our $#*@ smiles.
You'll be whistling zippity-doo-dah out of your @*&@$%!
By the time we made it to our destination we hated each other's guts. We would pout and drag our feet and be of poor attitude everywhere we went which would outrage Pop and make Mom cry. Then they'd fight about why Mom was crying or why Pop had to be such a bonehead. And the two little devils in the backseat would continue to be at each other's throats. Yet, each summer, we would try it again. I believe that is the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
A few years ago there was an occasion that called for my sister and I to go to New Jersey. We thought the sands of time had erased the awfulness of being together for any length of time. We were wrong. When I got home I signed and dated a piece of paper that said "I hereby solemnly swear, being of semi-sound mind and questionable body to never travel with an immediate family member, they can't be trusted." It hung on my fridge till the fridge died and I had to get a new one. Now it is filed away so I will remember. Welcome to my psychosis.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Case of the Mysterious Pee Spot
We recently came to be parents of a new puppy. Briggs is an Old English Sheep Dog and is a little over 2 months old. When we went to look at the pups, he and his litter mates were graciously using the newspaper provided in the kennel for their bathroom needs. FABULOUS I thought! He’s half way potty trained!
Briggs came home with us and immediately forgot the purpose of the newspaper. It became a playground for playing and romping, a play thing to rip and shred. We soon abandoned hope and are still trying to get him to potty in the yard like a good boy instead of on the porch, patio, and sidewalks. He feels that his job is to lay on the front porch at all times to guard the door and forgets to walk three feet to the grass when the urge hits. So several times a day I have to make sure to take him for a stroll in the grass to remind him that THIS is where we (Briggs, not myself) pee and poop.
Briggs likes to run in the basement door with me when I go in and out. He has discovered during his exploration there, that we have basement stairs. And these stairs lead to a door at the top. He has also discovered that by pushing and pawing this door, he can pop it open and find himself in the kitchen, a magical place with rugs and a garbage can.
He is not allowed in the kitchen. This domain belongs to our cat, Fat Gladys, who rules her kingdom with an iron fist and a stony glare. Suffice it to say that their first introduction was less than satisfactory. Husband felt it necessary for them to meet. I thought that was a nice idea. (It was Brigg’s first day at our house and he was smaller and less mobile than he is now.) He was calmly laying in the living room (we were still deciding what to do with him for the night) and instead of letting Gladys find him on her own and deem him acceptable or unacceptable, Husband picked up Fat Gladys and plopped her down right in front of Briggs.
Briggs continued chewing his stuffed animal and ignored Gladys. Gladys morphed into Halloween Cat and poofed her tail out. She remained with arched back and big yellow eyes for an eternity of seconds while she tried to figure out in her feline mind how she should react to this unfortunate turn of events. In the end she ran hissing out of the room never to be seen on the first floor for the next few days. Having another furry animal in the house totally destroyed her life.
That was a few weeks ago. They have since drawn up a treaty that states that Briggs may be on the porch as much as he wants. He may even have the basement because Gladys is not allowed down there (that’s our rule, not hers. She notes every time the basement door opens and if she doesn’t hear it close again, she sneaks down. She knows this is bad and she’s not allowed and yet the element of danger is such that she can’t resist.) As long as Briggs stays out of the house, they can be civil.
Briggs does not always honor this treaty though. Maybe his lawyer did not explain the parameters of the agreement properly. I’ve found him in the house several times already. Perhaps we should have named him Harry Houdini. He’s usually calmly sleeping on the kitchen floor, having licked up all the crumbs beside the stove. Once he came up through the basement. Another time, we suspect, he waited till the wind blew the screen door open and came in. Husband tightened the spring on the screen door so that doesn’t happen anymore.
That brings us to the Case of the Mysterious Pee Spot. Yesterday I was quilting. Gladys came in to twirl around my legs and say hello, then flopped down unceremoniously on the floor. We continued amicably in silence for awhile, me quilting, Gladys lounging. Eventually I went downstairs.
The kitchen rugs were askew. Hmm, I thought, that’s different. I walked past the living room. Our big afghan was halfway across the living room floor. I didn’t remember tossing it there for any reason. Why would I? In the hallway I found one of my good flip flops upside down. I circled back to the kitchen to make sure Briggs wasn’t in there somewhere. He was laying outside on the porch sleeping.
How odd, I thought. Maybe I got up to answer the phone and DID fling the afghan on the floor. Maybe the breeze stirred up the kitchen rugs. Maybe I carelessly kicked off my flip flops, it happens all the time.
Later in the evening we sat down to watch the telly. As I sat there, I happened to notice a dark spot on the living room carpet. It looked yellowish. I went over. It was slightly damp. I pointed it out to Husband who claimed that it was NOT HIM that peed on the floor. I know it wasn’t me either. We both looked suspiciously at the cat. She blinked and looked away. She uses her litter box religiously, but could she have been trying to frame the dog? The dog was on the porch when I found him. And Gladys was with me most of the afternoon. (She’s also too small and does not have the dental capacity to drag that huge blanket off of the couch.) The only other being to suspect would be Jim, our sometimes ghost. He’s really picky about the house though and prefers it clean. I don’t think he would manifest to pee on the floor.
All evidence points to Briggs. But how did he get in? And how did he know to get back out? Is he really that clever and cunning or did he just Mr. Magoo his way in and out? The mystery remains. Perhaps we should have named him O.J.
Briggs came home with us and immediately forgot the purpose of the newspaper. It became a playground for playing and romping, a play thing to rip and shred. We soon abandoned hope and are still trying to get him to potty in the yard like a good boy instead of on the porch, patio, and sidewalks. He feels that his job is to lay on the front porch at all times to guard the door and forgets to walk three feet to the grass when the urge hits. So several times a day I have to make sure to take him for a stroll in the grass to remind him that THIS is where we (Briggs, not myself) pee and poop.
Briggs likes to run in the basement door with me when I go in and out. He has discovered during his exploration there, that we have basement stairs. And these stairs lead to a door at the top. He has also discovered that by pushing and pawing this door, he can pop it open and find himself in the kitchen, a magical place with rugs and a garbage can.
He is not allowed in the kitchen. This domain belongs to our cat, Fat Gladys, who rules her kingdom with an iron fist and a stony glare. Suffice it to say that their first introduction was less than satisfactory. Husband felt it necessary for them to meet. I thought that was a nice idea. (It was Brigg’s first day at our house and he was smaller and less mobile than he is now.) He was calmly laying in the living room (we were still deciding what to do with him for the night) and instead of letting Gladys find him on her own and deem him acceptable or unacceptable, Husband picked up Fat Gladys and plopped her down right in front of Briggs.
Briggs continued chewing his stuffed animal and ignored Gladys. Gladys morphed into Halloween Cat and poofed her tail out. She remained with arched back and big yellow eyes for an eternity of seconds while she tried to figure out in her feline mind how she should react to this unfortunate turn of events. In the end she ran hissing out of the room never to be seen on the first floor for the next few days. Having another furry animal in the house totally destroyed her life.
That was a few weeks ago. They have since drawn up a treaty that states that Briggs may be on the porch as much as he wants. He may even have the basement because Gladys is not allowed down there (that’s our rule, not hers. She notes every time the basement door opens and if she doesn’t hear it close again, she sneaks down. She knows this is bad and she’s not allowed and yet the element of danger is such that she can’t resist.) As long as Briggs stays out of the house, they can be civil.
Briggs does not always honor this treaty though. Maybe his lawyer did not explain the parameters of the agreement properly. I’ve found him in the house several times already. Perhaps we should have named him Harry Houdini. He’s usually calmly sleeping on the kitchen floor, having licked up all the crumbs beside the stove. Once he came up through the basement. Another time, we suspect, he waited till the wind blew the screen door open and came in. Husband tightened the spring on the screen door so that doesn’t happen anymore.
That brings us to the Case of the Mysterious Pee Spot. Yesterday I was quilting. Gladys came in to twirl around my legs and say hello, then flopped down unceremoniously on the floor. We continued amicably in silence for awhile, me quilting, Gladys lounging. Eventually I went downstairs.
The kitchen rugs were askew. Hmm, I thought, that’s different. I walked past the living room. Our big afghan was halfway across the living room floor. I didn’t remember tossing it there for any reason. Why would I? In the hallway I found one of my good flip flops upside down. I circled back to the kitchen to make sure Briggs wasn’t in there somewhere. He was laying outside on the porch sleeping.
How odd, I thought. Maybe I got up to answer the phone and DID fling the afghan on the floor. Maybe the breeze stirred up the kitchen rugs. Maybe I carelessly kicked off my flip flops, it happens all the time.
Later in the evening we sat down to watch the telly. As I sat there, I happened to notice a dark spot on the living room carpet. It looked yellowish. I went over. It was slightly damp. I pointed it out to Husband who claimed that it was NOT HIM that peed on the floor. I know it wasn’t me either. We both looked suspiciously at the cat. She blinked and looked away. She uses her litter box religiously, but could she have been trying to frame the dog? The dog was on the porch when I found him. And Gladys was with me most of the afternoon. (She’s also too small and does not have the dental capacity to drag that huge blanket off of the couch.) The only other being to suspect would be Jim, our sometimes ghost. He’s really picky about the house though and prefers it clean. I don’t think he would manifest to pee on the floor.
All evidence points to Briggs. But how did he get in? And how did he know to get back out? Is he really that clever and cunning or did he just Mr. Magoo his way in and out? The mystery remains. Perhaps we should have named him O.J.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
A Voting Story
Today was election day here in bonny ol' PA. As per ususal (I like to say "per usual" - it lends an air of fake sophistication) I did my civic duty. And once I was done with that and flushed the toilet, I went out to vote because we take voting very seriously in my family.
The worst part about voting is the mad dash from your car to the polling place door. We call it "Running the Gauntlet." Would-be Candidates normally swarm upon you with pleas to vote for them and handouts with their names on it, while you try to smile and politely escape as quickly as manners will allow. Sometimes the handouts are even useful things like pens, pencils, and emery boards which makes me feel like a trick-or-treater. I've even considered wearing a t-shirt when I vote that says "Can Be Bought With Snickers." But if you can break past them into the goalie box (they can't go within so many feet of the door and where I vote at, there is actually a rectangle drawn on the ground that reminds me of a goalie box) you are home free. I don't know what the repercussions are for Would-be Candidates who chase you into the goalie box. I've heard if they cross the chalk line they immediately disintegrate and their name automatically disappears from all the ballots inside the building.
Today the Gauntlet was not bad at all, there was only one Would-be and he turned out to be someone I knew so we chatted briefly.
Inside my polling place you may either choose to use the computer (boo!! hiss!!) or a paper ballot (yay!! paper!!) We're a little backwoods that way. They've been trying to encourage us to use the computerized voting machine for years now but since that little fiasco down in Florida during the Bush/Gore Cage Fight no one around here wants anything to do with the computer. Oh sure, a small handful will use it, but a large majority - me included, prefer the paper ballots.
There is a sense of satisfaction when I color in that little rectangle beside the name. I try to figure out who I want before I go in, however, this tactic always seems to backfire. I get my ballot, step inside the shower curtain (which reminds me of the Wizard of Oz and I always think someone should be yelling "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!" but no one ever does) and there before me on the paper are people I need to vote for who I never heard of. I need to vote for ONE and my choices are two people from the opposite side of the state. I don't like that side of the state. Nothing good comes from that side of the state. In fact, I think that side of the state should just join up with New Jersey and leave this half of the state alone, but I digress.
So I'm left to flounder. Apparently this election did not turn out to be much of a turd flinger or I would have heard of these people. Or perhaps my lack of local news on tv and my lapsed subscription to the newspaper has something to do with it. At any rate I guess my way through the ones I don't know and color in the dots to the people who I want. There were a bunch of write-ins this time with no one running. I didn't know what to do with them.
After the dot coloring, it's time to submit your ballot. We have a fancy machine that's been there for quite a few years now. You feed your ballot into it. It looks and sounds suspiciously like a paper shredder. I raise an eyebrow every time I use it. Today I even asked if it were indeed a paper shredder. Everyone working the election table looked away guiltily and denied it.
Meanwhile the computerized voting machine was over there shooting votes into cyber space. All three of them.
When I got home the phone rang. It was Dad. He called to tell me that if I got elected to anything it was his fault. He didn't know what to do with all those blank write-ins either so he voted for me for: Auditor, Commissioner, District Attorney and School Board Director. He wrote in his own name for Judge. Like I said, we take voting very seriously in our family.
Nothing to do now but wait for the votes to be counted. Then perhaps Dad and I can begin our reign of terror. Buwahahahaha!!!
The worst part about voting is the mad dash from your car to the polling place door. We call it "Running the Gauntlet." Would-be Candidates normally swarm upon you with pleas to vote for them and handouts with their names on it, while you try to smile and politely escape as quickly as manners will allow. Sometimes the handouts are even useful things like pens, pencils, and emery boards which makes me feel like a trick-or-treater. I've even considered wearing a t-shirt when I vote that says "Can Be Bought With Snickers." But if you can break past them into the goalie box (they can't go within so many feet of the door and where I vote at, there is actually a rectangle drawn on the ground that reminds me of a goalie box) you are home free. I don't know what the repercussions are for Would-be Candidates who chase you into the goalie box. I've heard if they cross the chalk line they immediately disintegrate and their name automatically disappears from all the ballots inside the building.
Today the Gauntlet was not bad at all, there was only one Would-be and he turned out to be someone I knew so we chatted briefly.
Inside my polling place you may either choose to use the computer (boo!! hiss!!) or a paper ballot (yay!! paper!!) We're a little backwoods that way. They've been trying to encourage us to use the computerized voting machine for years now but since that little fiasco down in Florida during the Bush/Gore Cage Fight no one around here wants anything to do with the computer. Oh sure, a small handful will use it, but a large majority - me included, prefer the paper ballots.
There is a sense of satisfaction when I color in that little rectangle beside the name. I try to figure out who I want before I go in, however, this tactic always seems to backfire. I get my ballot, step inside the shower curtain (which reminds me of the Wizard of Oz and I always think someone should be yelling "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!" but no one ever does) and there before me on the paper are people I need to vote for who I never heard of. I need to vote for ONE and my choices are two people from the opposite side of the state. I don't like that side of the state. Nothing good comes from that side of the state. In fact, I think that side of the state should just join up with New Jersey and leave this half of the state alone, but I digress.
So I'm left to flounder. Apparently this election did not turn out to be much of a turd flinger or I would have heard of these people. Or perhaps my lack of local news on tv and my lapsed subscription to the newspaper has something to do with it. At any rate I guess my way through the ones I don't know and color in the dots to the people who I want. There were a bunch of write-ins this time with no one running. I didn't know what to do with them.
After the dot coloring, it's time to submit your ballot. We have a fancy machine that's been there for quite a few years now. You feed your ballot into it. It looks and sounds suspiciously like a paper shredder. I raise an eyebrow every time I use it. Today I even asked if it were indeed a paper shredder. Everyone working the election table looked away guiltily and denied it.
Meanwhile the computerized voting machine was over there shooting votes into cyber space. All three of them.
When I got home the phone rang. It was Dad. He called to tell me that if I got elected to anything it was his fault. He didn't know what to do with all those blank write-ins either so he voted for me for: Auditor, Commissioner, District Attorney and School Board Director. He wrote in his own name for Judge. Like I said, we take voting very seriously in our family.
Nothing to do now but wait for the votes to be counted. Then perhaps Dad and I can begin our reign of terror. Buwahahahaha!!!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
CUBICLE TRAGEDY - DEATH IN THE WORKPLACE
I happened upon my writing portfolio today. The "portfolio" is actually an overstuffed manilla folder filled with the billions of things I wrote to distract myself and others during my ten year career as a cubicle dweller. My days there were spent either absolutely stressed to tears or so bored out of my skull that I was forced to amuse myself and drink coffee to stay awake.
Walk with me, dear audience, down memory lane.
On the day the following gem was written we were apparently having a birthday party for someone. Also, names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Who knows, maybe it will launch them into internet stardom.
CUBICLE TRAGEDY - DEATH IN THE WORKPLACE
Girl dies suddenly at her desk of boredom. Kelly C. Baker, 30, of New Enterprise was found unresponsive at her desk Friday, June 29, 2007. Autopsy reveals that she had eaten too much buffalo chicken dip and party food, causing her stomach to explode.
Police statements from co-workers say that they witnessed her snorking down tortilla chips loaded with the death dip at three minute intervals throughout the day.
"She was always so busy, but apparently she was getting bored or stressed with the work so she turned to food." said Patty W. who had baked a cake the victim was seen eating.
"The last thing she said to me was 'This is damn good cake.' That was this morning. She had chocolate all over her face," witness Chelsea A. states.
"She was so young and vibrant," Mandy S. adds "I wish I hadn't made so much buffalo chicken dip."
The county coroner reports that when her body was found, she was smiling.
Walk with me, dear audience, down memory lane.
On the day the following gem was written we were apparently having a birthday party for someone. Also, names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Who knows, maybe it will launch them into internet stardom.
CUBICLE TRAGEDY - DEATH IN THE WORKPLACE
Girl dies suddenly at her desk of boredom. Kelly C. Baker, 30, of New Enterprise was found unresponsive at her desk Friday, June 29, 2007. Autopsy reveals that she had eaten too much buffalo chicken dip and party food, causing her stomach to explode.
Police statements from co-workers say that they witnessed her snorking down tortilla chips loaded with the death dip at three minute intervals throughout the day.
"She was always so busy, but apparently she was getting bored or stressed with the work so she turned to food." said Patty W. who had baked a cake the victim was seen eating.
"The last thing she said to me was 'This is damn good cake.' That was this morning. She had chocolate all over her face," witness Chelsea A. states.
"She was so young and vibrant," Mandy S. adds "I wish I hadn't made so much buffalo chicken dip."
The county coroner reports that when her body was found, she was smiling.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I May Have Shingles - A Self Diagnosis *Update*
Today's post is dedicated to my friend Kevin Levling because today is his birthday.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY KEVIN!!
You know how sometimes you just wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if you have Shingles? (Come on, admit it, you've laid there wondering.) Well last night was one of those nights for me. So I finally got out of bed to find out.
I did this by turning on my computer and typing in "Shingles." I now know everything there is to know about Shingles including it's orgin, date of birth and mother's maiden name. I also have a sneaking suspision that I will be having a full blown episode of it in the next few days. But in an effort to save money, I am refusing medical treatment until the actual rash appears and renders me helpless.
Our current medical insurance plan is about as useful as our Directv dish during a light rain (Searching for signal.... Searching for signal...blank screen....oblivion...) It's there but it doesn't really do anything. So no matter what, we end up selling kidneys and plasma and liver pieces to cover the difference that our helpless insurance refuses to pay.
Which brings me back to my impending doom. If I go to the doctor today (although I will not likely get in because they're always too busy to fit in medical emergencies like an outbreak of Shingles) she will look at me with a blank stare and ask me why I'm there. When I explain that my left shoulderblade and under-boob is itchy and sometimes feels funny like it's covered in Vicks Vapor Rub but has no visible signs of rash yet and I think it might be Shingles, she will give me an unimpressed look and send me home. But not before paying my billion dollar co-pay.
Then in three days, when the Shingles actually manifests itself and I am a red and pus covered rashy mess, I will have to go back and point to it and say SEE??!! And then I will have to not only pay another co-pay, I will probably be sent for "tests" just to make sure it's not really red magic marker.
The tests will not be covered by my pathetic insurance and when I've finally recovered from the Shingles I will be sent a bill asking for my first born son or daughter. This is why I haven't had them yet. As soon as I get pregnant, Capital Blue Cross is going to swoop down out of the sky and demand payment from the time Husband got a concussion from fixing clocks- but that's a whole other story, I won't get into it right now. So I'm avoiding having to forfeit my unborn future children. And I'll probably need to have a whole litter of them just to pay off the maternity bill.
So in the meantime, until my rash breaks out I'm considering doing a Marianna's Hoagie Sale Fundraiser to pay for my upcoming medical expenses. I mentioned it on Facebook and lots of my friends un-selfishly ordered a fake hoagie on my behalf, Italian being the most popular. I also plan on enjoying the Shingles to the fullest, since I will be considered a contagious menace to anyone who has never had chicken pox and I will have to seclude myself to prevent spreading the awfulness around, although the little anarchist in me wants to go skipping through public places in a spaghetti top shirt and bump into people on purpose. (KELLY CHRISTINE!) I know, it's wrong. Welcome to My Psychosis.
PS. Wrote this little diddy the other day:
Shingles (to the tune of “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash)
by Kelly C. Baker
I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
They’re comin’ round the bend
I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
I – just don’t know when…
I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
Gonna itch and burn
Yeah it’s gonna be unpleasant,
It must be my turn.
My back’s already itchy
But still I have no rash
I reach around to scratch it,
Relief don’t last
I’m gonna get the Shingles
I know it ain’t no fun
Right now I’m not contagious
I can’t hurt no one.
But when that rash breaks out upon me
I’ll stay inside my box,
Cause then I’ll be contagious
If you ain’t had chickenpox.
But if you’ve done had it,
You can come visit me,
Yeah, if you come an visit,
Bring me some Ritchey’s Tea.
Friday, April 22, 2011
I Hate Spiders
I hate spiders. They are my least favorite of all creepy-crawlies that walk the earth. No matter how innocent they may actually be, in my mind's eye, they are menacing horrible fiends that want to crawl on my face while I'm sleeping. (My mind's eye is a bit disturbed.)
I think it all started when I was a kid. Growing up in the woods, we were surrounded day and night by the worst of them all- the Daddy Long Leg. My chore was to take a broom and wipe the webs & daddy long leg nests off the balcony ceiling. (The mere memory of it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.) Seeing all those little spider egg sacks up there really freaked me out. And I was pretty sure that all the spiders I was wiping down would crawl down the broom and onto my arm while I had that broom pointed up in the air. There isn't enough money in the world to pay for the therapy I'd need to repair that psychosis.
Spiders, like dogs, have an uncanny knack for knowing who hates them and those are the people they are inevitably drawn to. I'm a spider magnet. Normally I only have human stalkers named Dave but in the animal kingdom it's the spiders. At least the Dave's don't stalk me in the shower. Spiders do. They have no sense of decency.
There I am, washing my hair, minding my own business when what do I see on the ceiling? A spider. It sees that I've spotted it (or maybe it heard my banshee-like shriek.) It immediately scurries towards me. I freeze on the spot. It's blocking my exit. I know, a shower curtain has two sides but my spider fear is irrational. To me, my exit is blocked no matter where the spider is physically located.
I'm naked and defenseless. The shampoo needs rinsed out of my hair but I don't want to lose that spider. It could climb into my warm dry towel and hatch a million spider babies and they'll all stream down my head when I wrap the towel around it and crawl on my face. At the same time, I have no plan whatsoever to dispose of this spider, for I am a coward and there is nothing to squash it with except shampoo and body wash bottles and an old shard of Irish Spring.
Then the unthinkable happens. It drops from the ceiling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. Now it is just inches away from me and all I can think to do is scream and cling to the shower curtain which isn't that sturdy and won't support me for long. Maybe it's my screaming, or maybe it's on a Hari Kari mission but the spider will always then plummet further down on his satin string of evil. At this point I have to choose between fight or flight, and knowing somewhere in the recesses of my tortured mind that flight will mean water to sop up off the bathroom floor later with the possibility of a spider ambush from the hidden folds of the shower curtain, I choose fight.
My idea of a Spider Shower Fight goes like this: I continue my ear piercing screaming while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. My hope is to use his web strand to knock him to the floor of the shower where he will be washed away down the drain forever and I won't have to touch him and he won't touch me. But that never happens.
Here is the reality of my Spider Shower Fight: I continue my ear piercing scream while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. As soon as my hand touches the string, the spider starts sucking itself back up- toward my hand. I scream louder and fling my hand madly, trying to get the little menace away from me. It ususally bounces off of me (again, more therapy needed) on it's way to the shower floor and then I realize that I still stand between it and the drain which is sort of clogged so there's a bit of a puddle. As the spider swirls around the water at my feet, it fights madly to gain purchase on whatever it can in order to live while I stomp in the water like the wildebeest of the wild Serengeti running away from a crocodile. I do this to keep it from finding me and trying to climb back up my leg to safety. I'm still screaming to raise the dead.
After the chaos dies down, I find myself still clutching the shower curtain and standing precariously on the edge of the tub peering down into the swirling water to watch the spider float down the drain and into oblivion. The shampoo is now dripping into my eyes but I'm loathe to climb back into the tub to continue my shower because what if that spider is aquatic and can swim upstream and back into the shower with me? The commotion in the shower was such that the cat has come in to investigate. (She can open the bathroom door, but she hasn't learned to shut it yet.) She brought along her poofy tail to indicate displeasure at having to come check on me. Her company gives me the confidence boost I need to climb back into the water.
Welcome to My Psychosis.
I think it all started when I was a kid. Growing up in the woods, we were surrounded day and night by the worst of them all- the Daddy Long Leg. My chore was to take a broom and wipe the webs & daddy long leg nests off the balcony ceiling. (The mere memory of it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.) Seeing all those little spider egg sacks up there really freaked me out. And I was pretty sure that all the spiders I was wiping down would crawl down the broom and onto my arm while I had that broom pointed up in the air. There isn't enough money in the world to pay for the therapy I'd need to repair that psychosis.
Spiders, like dogs, have an uncanny knack for knowing who hates them and those are the people they are inevitably drawn to. I'm a spider magnet. Normally I only have human stalkers named Dave but in the animal kingdom it's the spiders. At least the Dave's don't stalk me in the shower. Spiders do. They have no sense of decency.
There I am, washing my hair, minding my own business when what do I see on the ceiling? A spider. It sees that I've spotted it (or maybe it heard my banshee-like shriek.) It immediately scurries towards me. I freeze on the spot. It's blocking my exit. I know, a shower curtain has two sides but my spider fear is irrational. To me, my exit is blocked no matter where the spider is physically located.
I'm naked and defenseless. The shampoo needs rinsed out of my hair but I don't want to lose that spider. It could climb into my warm dry towel and hatch a million spider babies and they'll all stream down my head when I wrap the towel around it and crawl on my face. At the same time, I have no plan whatsoever to dispose of this spider, for I am a coward and there is nothing to squash it with except shampoo and body wash bottles and an old shard of Irish Spring.
Then the unthinkable happens. It drops from the ceiling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. Now it is just inches away from me and all I can think to do is scream and cling to the shower curtain which isn't that sturdy and won't support me for long. Maybe it's my screaming, or maybe it's on a Hari Kari mission but the spider will always then plummet further down on his satin string of evil. At this point I have to choose between fight or flight, and knowing somewhere in the recesses of my tortured mind that flight will mean water to sop up off the bathroom floor later with the possibility of a spider ambush from the hidden folds of the shower curtain, I choose fight.
My idea of a Spider Shower Fight goes like this: I continue my ear piercing screaming while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. My hope is to use his web strand to knock him to the floor of the shower where he will be washed away down the drain forever and I won't have to touch him and he won't touch me. But that never happens.
Here is the reality of my Spider Shower Fight: I continue my ear piercing scream while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. As soon as my hand touches the string, the spider starts sucking itself back up- toward my hand. I scream louder and fling my hand madly, trying to get the little menace away from me. It ususally bounces off of me (again, more therapy needed) on it's way to the shower floor and then I realize that I still stand between it and the drain which is sort of clogged so there's a bit of a puddle. As the spider swirls around the water at my feet, it fights madly to gain purchase on whatever it can in order to live while I stomp in the water like the wildebeest of the wild Serengeti running away from a crocodile. I do this to keep it from finding me and trying to climb back up my leg to safety. I'm still screaming to raise the dead.
After the chaos dies down, I find myself still clutching the shower curtain and standing precariously on the edge of the tub peering down into the swirling water to watch the spider float down the drain and into oblivion. The shampoo is now dripping into my eyes but I'm loathe to climb back into the tub to continue my shower because what if that spider is aquatic and can swim upstream and back into the shower with me? The commotion in the shower was such that the cat has come in to investigate. (She can open the bathroom door, but she hasn't learned to shut it yet.) She brought along her poofy tail to indicate displeasure at having to come check on me. Her company gives me the confidence boost I need to climb back into the water.
Welcome to My Psychosis.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
How To Move A Piano By Yourself - A 40 Step Strategy
Sometimes one finds herself alone and wanting to move furniture. Sometimes that furniture is easily moved. Other times it is something that weighs a million pounds. Like, say, a piano. Sometimes one asks her husband to move it for her but he ignores her request and goes back to fiddling around with his old pickup trucks, hoping she'll forget that she asked him. But she doesn't forget and instead plots ways to do it herself when he's at work.
So how does one move a piano by one's self? If you've ever wondered, here is the answer:
Step One: Clear all obstacles out of the way between the piano and it's destination. This may mean you'll have to climb behind where the piano is currently sitting to move a bookshelf. With books on it. That's ok. Start with moving the books. Contort your body in any way possible to get the shelf cleared off. Then move the bookshelf. If you're thinking the bookshelf weighs too much, just wait till you try to heave that piano. Suddenly the bookshelf will be a lot lighter.
Step Two: Try to move the piano back against the wall where the bookshelf used to be.
Step Three: Realize that the piano weighs a million pounds and you can't budge it, not even a little bit.
Step Four: Get on your hands and knees to see if there are any wheels left on the bottom of the piano.
Step Five: Realize that there are only two wheels remaining. Calculate the probability of gouging the hard wood floors if you ever do succeed in sliding this monster back approximately 4 feet to get to the wall.
Step Six: Drink a Coke and ponder the situation.
Step Seven: Go back and face your demons.
Step Eight: Determine that a nice little square of carpet, placed carpet side to the hardwood floor, would make a nice sliding coaster for underneath the missing wheels, which unfortunately are in the back.
Step Nine: Go on a wild goose chase around the house looking for an old piece of scrap carpet.
Step 10: Find the perfect piece in the attic. Brush the bird poo off of it, cut the two small squares needed and take it downstairs.
Step 11: Notice that the cat is missing. Go looking for her. Find her in the attic and spend 10 minutes trying to herd her back downstairs.
Step 12: Try to lift the piano just enough to get the carpet pieces slid underneath.
Step 13: Remember you can't lift the piano to slide the carpet pieces underneath (it weighs a million pounds.)
Step 14: Go have another sip of Coke and ponder the situation again.
Step 15: Decide that you must jack the piano up to get the carpet squares underneath.
Step 16: Go looking for a jack. Find one in your car trunk beside the donut tire. Take it back into the house.
Step 17: Look for a piece of wood long and sturdy enough to reach from the top of the jack to a spot high on the back of the piano where such a piece of wood could be propped against.
Step 18: After scavenging around the whole property, come up with a shabby board that looks like it might splinter in two. Decide to use it anyhow.
Step 19: Grimace when the shabby board is about 9 inches too short. Commence looking for a small block of wood to fill the space.
Step 20: Find a discarded chunk of firewood. Shrug and take it in the house.
Step 21: Look warily at the piano, the shabby board, the chunk of wood and the jack.
Step 22: Start jacking. Set the chunk of wood on the jack and when it gets high enough, add the shabby board and wedge it under the top of the piano.
Step 23: Hide your head around the corner of the piano just incase the shabby board splinters into a gazillion pieces sending wooden shrapnel towards your eyes.
Step 24: Gasp in amazement that the piano is actually lifting.
Step 25: Amazement is short lived as the piano slides forward slightly.
Step 26: Continue jacking with your right arm while your left arm holds the piano from sliding forward anymore. Keep your face hidden around the side, that board is a ticking time bomb.
Step 27: Use the arm that did the jacking to slide the carpet square underneath the missing piano wheel, your left arm is still trying to keep the piano from sliding forward.
Step 28: As you slide your hand and carpet square precariously under the million pound piano supported by a car jack, a block of wood and an unstable board, recall the movie 127 Hours. Start to think of escape strategies just in case. Can the cat bring you the phone? How many hours till your husband comes home to rescue you? Would it be easier to chew your arm off?
Step 29: Breath a sigh of relief when the carpet is in place, the jack is lowered and your hand is still safely attached to you and not trapped under the million pound piano.
Step 30: See step #22 and start there because you still have to jack up the other end of the piano to get the carpet square under THAT side too. (Bummer)
Step 31: Put the car jack back in the trunk. Return all wooden materials to wherever you found them.
Step 32: Have a talk with the piano. Explain to it that if it slides back against the wall you will be able to make the room around it beautiful again and people will want to actually go in that room instead of avoid it. Remind it that it is made of wood, just like the floors so we should all try to get along and not scratch each other.
Step 33: Be thankful no one heard you giving the floor and piano a pep talk.
Step 34: Grit your teeth and lift as much as you can possibly lift a million pound piano while trying to slide it backwards.
Step 35: Forget about the slippery spot on the floor caused by dusting and spraying Pledge all morning long. Fall down a little bit.
Step 36: Try again but without standing on the Pledge spot. Do a Happy Dance when the piano actually moves back!
Step 37: Slip on the Pledge spot while doing the Happy Dance.
Step 38: Move the other side of the piano back. (No Pledge spot on that end of the piano to contend with, dance as much as you want.)
Step 39: Inspect the floors for gouges. Find none. Do another Happy Dance.
Step 40: Realize that now that you've moved a million pound piano by yourself, your husband will never, ever, ever help you move anything else. Curse silently at this unexpected turn of events.
So how does one move a piano by one's self? If you've ever wondered, here is the answer:
Step One: Clear all obstacles out of the way between the piano and it's destination. This may mean you'll have to climb behind where the piano is currently sitting to move a bookshelf. With books on it. That's ok. Start with moving the books. Contort your body in any way possible to get the shelf cleared off. Then move the bookshelf. If you're thinking the bookshelf weighs too much, just wait till you try to heave that piano. Suddenly the bookshelf will be a lot lighter.
Step Two: Try to move the piano back against the wall where the bookshelf used to be.
Step Three: Realize that the piano weighs a million pounds and you can't budge it, not even a little bit.
Step Four: Get on your hands and knees to see if there are any wheels left on the bottom of the piano.
Step Five: Realize that there are only two wheels remaining. Calculate the probability of gouging the hard wood floors if you ever do succeed in sliding this monster back approximately 4 feet to get to the wall.
Step Six: Drink a Coke and ponder the situation.
Step Seven: Go back and face your demons.
Step Eight: Determine that a nice little square of carpet, placed carpet side to the hardwood floor, would make a nice sliding coaster for underneath the missing wheels, which unfortunately are in the back.
Step Nine: Go on a wild goose chase around the house looking for an old piece of scrap carpet.
Step 10: Find the perfect piece in the attic. Brush the bird poo off of it, cut the two small squares needed and take it downstairs.
Step 11: Notice that the cat is missing. Go looking for her. Find her in the attic and spend 10 minutes trying to herd her back downstairs.
Step 12: Try to lift the piano just enough to get the carpet pieces slid underneath.
Step 13: Remember you can't lift the piano to slide the carpet pieces underneath (it weighs a million pounds.)
Step 14: Go have another sip of Coke and ponder the situation again.
Step 15: Decide that you must jack the piano up to get the carpet squares underneath.
Step 16: Go looking for a jack. Find one in your car trunk beside the donut tire. Take it back into the house.
Step 17: Look for a piece of wood long and sturdy enough to reach from the top of the jack to a spot high on the back of the piano where such a piece of wood could be propped against.
Step 18: After scavenging around the whole property, come up with a shabby board that looks like it might splinter in two. Decide to use it anyhow.
Step 19: Grimace when the shabby board is about 9 inches too short. Commence looking for a small block of wood to fill the space.
Step 20: Find a discarded chunk of firewood. Shrug and take it in the house.
Step 21: Look warily at the piano, the shabby board, the chunk of wood and the jack.
Step 22: Start jacking. Set the chunk of wood on the jack and when it gets high enough, add the shabby board and wedge it under the top of the piano.
Step 23: Hide your head around the corner of the piano just incase the shabby board splinters into a gazillion pieces sending wooden shrapnel towards your eyes.
Step 24: Gasp in amazement that the piano is actually lifting.
Step 25: Amazement is short lived as the piano slides forward slightly.
Step 26: Continue jacking with your right arm while your left arm holds the piano from sliding forward anymore. Keep your face hidden around the side, that board is a ticking time bomb.
Step 27: Use the arm that did the jacking to slide the carpet square underneath the missing piano wheel, your left arm is still trying to keep the piano from sliding forward.
Step 28: As you slide your hand and carpet square precariously under the million pound piano supported by a car jack, a block of wood and an unstable board, recall the movie 127 Hours. Start to think of escape strategies just in case. Can the cat bring you the phone? How many hours till your husband comes home to rescue you? Would it be easier to chew your arm off?
Step 29: Breath a sigh of relief when the carpet is in place, the jack is lowered and your hand is still safely attached to you and not trapped under the million pound piano.
Step 30: See step #22 and start there because you still have to jack up the other end of the piano to get the carpet square under THAT side too. (Bummer)
Step 31: Put the car jack back in the trunk. Return all wooden materials to wherever you found them.
Step 32: Have a talk with the piano. Explain to it that if it slides back against the wall you will be able to make the room around it beautiful again and people will want to actually go in that room instead of avoid it. Remind it that it is made of wood, just like the floors so we should all try to get along and not scratch each other.
Step 33: Be thankful no one heard you giving the floor and piano a pep talk.
Step 34: Grit your teeth and lift as much as you can possibly lift a million pound piano while trying to slide it backwards.
Step 35: Forget about the slippery spot on the floor caused by dusting and spraying Pledge all morning long. Fall down a little bit.
Step 36: Try again but without standing on the Pledge spot. Do a Happy Dance when the piano actually moves back!
Step 37: Slip on the Pledge spot while doing the Happy Dance.
Step 38: Move the other side of the piano back. (No Pledge spot on that end of the piano to contend with, dance as much as you want.)
Step 39: Inspect the floors for gouges. Find none. Do another Happy Dance.
Step 40: Realize that now that you've moved a million pound piano by yourself, your husband will never, ever, ever help you move anything else. Curse silently at this unexpected turn of events.
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