Ahh, the New Year. A chance to reflect on the past twelve months and try to better myself.
This year, I have only one resolution: to figure out a way to put my seatbelt on without violently yanking my hair. Perhaps I'll use a ponytail.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY!
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Nostalgae Eater
I go home kind of a lot, but for some reason this time was different. I was so filled with nostalgia and love for my hometown, family and friends that I almost couldn't function.
I stopped at the Sonic where we used to hang out in high school and my heart was so full I just about sat there and bawled into my vanilla diet coke. Look, that's the spot where Levi picked up a dirty, disgusting, smushed tater tot out of an oil spot and ate it for a dollar! Ahhh, those were the days.
I spent a few precious hours sitting on the kitchen counter in Carly's parents' house gossiping with Carly and Leah about everyone we went to high school with (except for you, of course! We only say good things when we talk about you!) and it felt like none of us had ever moved away. Aww, remember that time we spent the night and your dad yelled "shut the hell up" and I about peed my pants because I'd never heard an angry Canadian before? That was the best.
I ran into an old friend at Walmart (HEY MINDY! YOU'RE PRETTY!) and it got me thinking about the good ol' days at Hartman Elementary School. Playing Popcorn in the hallway, pep rallies for the Dallas Cowboys, and the blissful ignorance that we were the poor kids.* I wonder if they still serve crispitos...they're probably the reason I was so chubby but as Gluttony is my witness, I'd eat ten of them right now if I could get my hands on them.
I went to the annual crock-pot cookoff with my dad's side of the family and had to wipe away a tear of joy when my cousin James pulled out the drunken gummy bears and offered me one. I'm finally old enough for my cool older cousins to want to talk to me/offer me alcohol-soaked candy! I LOVE THIS FAMILY!
I hung out with Bailey and Levi for the first time in almost two YEARS and, after crying my eyes out while watching their daughter open an early Christmas gift, literally stopped in my tracks to point out to Bailey that we're like...real adults now, which means we're like...friends for real.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: some things will never change/sometimes you can go home again/growing up is weird.
*There were only three elementary schools in Wylie at the time: Hartman, Aiken and Birmingham. I've since learned that Hartman had the poor kids, Birmingham had the rich kids, and Aiken had...frogs? I don't know what Aiken had.
I stopped at the Sonic where we used to hang out in high school and my heart was so full I just about sat there and bawled into my vanilla diet coke. Look, that's the spot where Levi picked up a dirty, disgusting, smushed tater tot out of an oil spot and ate it for a dollar! Ahhh, those were the days.
I spent a few precious hours sitting on the kitchen counter in Carly's parents' house gossiping with Carly and Leah about everyone we went to high school with (except for you, of course! We only say good things when we talk about you!) and it felt like none of us had ever moved away. Aww, remember that time we spent the night and your dad yelled "shut the hell up" and I about peed my pants because I'd never heard an angry Canadian before? That was the best.
I ran into an old friend at Walmart (HEY MINDY! YOU'RE PRETTY!) and it got me thinking about the good ol' days at Hartman Elementary School. Playing Popcorn in the hallway, pep rallies for the Dallas Cowboys, and the blissful ignorance that we were the poor kids.* I wonder if they still serve crispitos...they're probably the reason I was so chubby but as Gluttony is my witness, I'd eat ten of them right now if I could get my hands on them.
I went to the annual crock-pot cookoff with my dad's side of the family and had to wipe away a tear of joy when my cousin James pulled out the drunken gummy bears and offered me one. I'm finally old enough for my cool older cousins to want to talk to me/offer me alcohol-soaked candy! I LOVE THIS FAMILY!
I hung out with Bailey and Levi for the first time in almost two YEARS and, after crying my eyes out while watching their daughter open an early Christmas gift, literally stopped in my tracks to point out to Bailey that we're like...real adults now, which means we're like...friends for real.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: some things will never change/sometimes you can go home again/growing up is weird.
*There were only three elementary schools in Wylie at the time: Hartman, Aiken and Birmingham. I've since learned that Hartman had the poor kids, Birmingham had the rich kids, and Aiken had...frogs? I don't know what Aiken had.
Drive Me Crazy
So you know how last week I was all like, "I can't believe I never blogged about that horrible experience where we almost died..." Well now I can. (Believe it, not die. I mean I guess technically I could die at any moment, but that's morbid and also irrelevant.) I was reminded this weekend of how when something sucks really bad, my natural reaction is to avoid thinking or talking about it at all costs, not to sit down and think about how to put a witty and lighthearted spin on it for the reading pleasure of 45 of my closest friends. (Ooooh, selfish! That's a Hail Mary.*)
ANYWAY, Sarah and I almost died on our drive home. Ugh, even now, a week later, I feel it - the feeling that I DO NOT WANT TO TALK OR THINK ABOUT IT because it sucked so bad. But I will because I love you guys and also I sorta feel like there's no point in going through a horrible experience if no one gets the chance to laugh about it and thank God they're not you.
We usually go down through New Mexico to get home, but Raton Pass closes at the drop of a hat** so we decided to go out east to Lamar and then down 287 from there. The drive to Amarillo usually takes six hours; it took us nine and a half GRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHFORTHELOVEOF - sorry. It's still kind of a touchy subject. Everything was fine until we got to Lamar and suddenly it looked like someone had spilled four inches of cement all over the road, except that it WASN'T cement, it was solid ICESONNNNOFAAAAA - excuse me. And the only way to not die was to keep a steady pace of about twenty miles an hourWHYYYYYYYYYYYYUUUHHHHHHHHH and that didn't stop until we got to OklahomAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
Now I'd like to take a moment to make a public apology to the state of Oklahoma. I couldn't be more sorry for all the mean things I've said about you in my life. That joke about how you're the reason Texas doesn't float off into the Gulf of Mexico because you suck...that was just cruel. I never would have repeated it if I'd known you then the way I know you now. Like a freshly laundered blanket still warm from the dryer, you were there for me when I needed you most and I shall never forget your kindness.
And now for the lighthearted part! At one point during the drive, Sarah got yelled at by a cop dressed like a Canadian Mountie. We came upon a jackknifed semi in the middle of downtown Springfield, CO. The southbound lane was completely obstructed, so the semi in front of us just rolled right over the four-foot pile of snow in the median and started driving the wrong way on the northbound side to go around the accident. We followed suit, operating under the assumption that since this guy drives trucks for a living, this must be the customary method of dealing with a situation such as this one.
Apparently the police officer on the scene did not agree. He got out of his truck, slammed the door and started yelling at the truck driver so forcefully that his feet were coming off the ground. Then he turned and headed toward our car. Sarah rolled down her window and he yelled at her in a similar manner, violently motioning to the five or six cars that had followed us into the wrong lane and blaming her only slightly less than the first guy who did it. She turned on her how-could-you-yell-at-me-I'm-just-a-small-innocent-child face and muttered an appropriately shame-ridden apology. I was afraid for a moment that she might cry, but as soon as he stomped out of earshot, she shrugged her shoulders, threw them deuces up and drove away, eyes gleaming with ferocious triumph at having avoided getting stuck behind that truck for who knows how long, or as I like to think of it, a nightmare within a nightmare.
And that is what happened. Now please don't ever make me talk about it again.
*You might not know that I was raised Catholic. In the Catholic church, when you go to confession, it's customary for the priest to assign you a certain number of prayers as penitence for your sins, so I developed a running joke with my friend where anytime I did anything bad, she'd lick her finger and draw an imaginary line in the air and say, "That's a Hail Mary." If what I did was really bad, she'd lick all ten of her fingers at once and give me ten tally marks. IT WAS FUNNY.
**A hat, fifteen feet of snow...same diff.
ANYWAY, Sarah and I almost died on our drive home. Ugh, even now, a week later, I feel it - the feeling that I DO NOT WANT TO TALK OR THINK ABOUT IT because it sucked so bad. But I will because I love you guys and also I sorta feel like there's no point in going through a horrible experience if no one gets the chance to laugh about it and thank God they're not you.
We usually go down through New Mexico to get home, but Raton Pass closes at the drop of a hat** so we decided to go out east to Lamar and then down 287 from there. The drive to Amarillo usually takes six hours; it took us nine and a half GRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHFORTHELOVEOF - sorry. It's still kind of a touchy subject. Everything was fine until we got to Lamar and suddenly it looked like someone had spilled four inches of cement all over the road, except that it WASN'T cement, it was solid ICESONNNNOFAAAAA - excuse me. And the only way to not die was to keep a steady pace of about twenty miles an hourWHYYYYYYYYYYYYUUUHHHHHHHHH and that didn't stop until we got to OklahomAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
Now I'd like to take a moment to make a public apology to the state of Oklahoma. I couldn't be more sorry for all the mean things I've said about you in my life. That joke about how you're the reason Texas doesn't float off into the Gulf of Mexico because you suck...that was just cruel. I never would have repeated it if I'd known you then the way I know you now. Like a freshly laundered blanket still warm from the dryer, you were there for me when I needed you most and I shall never forget your kindness.
And now for the lighthearted part! At one point during the drive, Sarah got yelled at by a cop dressed like a Canadian Mountie. We came upon a jackknifed semi in the middle of downtown Springfield, CO. The southbound lane was completely obstructed, so the semi in front of us just rolled right over the four-foot pile of snow in the median and started driving the wrong way on the northbound side to go around the accident. We followed suit, operating under the assumption that since this guy drives trucks for a living, this must be the customary method of dealing with a situation such as this one.
Apparently the police officer on the scene did not agree. He got out of his truck, slammed the door and started yelling at the truck driver so forcefully that his feet were coming off the ground. Then he turned and headed toward our car. Sarah rolled down her window and he yelled at her in a similar manner, violently motioning to the five or six cars that had followed us into the wrong lane and blaming her only slightly less than the first guy who did it. She turned on her how-could-you-yell-at-me-I'm-just-a-small-innocent-child face and muttered an appropriately shame-ridden apology. I was afraid for a moment that she might cry, but as soon as he stomped out of earshot, she shrugged her shoulders, threw them deuces up and drove away, eyes gleaming with ferocious triumph at having avoided getting stuck behind that truck for who knows how long, or as I like to think of it, a nightmare within a nightmare.
And that is what happened. Now please don't ever make me talk about it again.
*You might not know that I was raised Catholic. In the Catholic church, when you go to confession, it's customary for the priest to assign you a certain number of prayers as penitence for your sins, so I developed a running joke with my friend where anytime I did anything bad, she'd lick her finger and draw an imaginary line in the air and say, "That's a Hail Mary." If what I did was really bad, she'd lick all ten of her fingers at once and give me ten tally marks. IT WAS FUNNY.
**A hat, fifteen feet of snow...same diff.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Texas Time!
I'll be in Texas before I go to sleep tonight! (Well, just Amarillo. But Texas is Texas, regardless of how bad it smells.)
Sarah and I are driving down tonight so we can beat the big scary snowstorm that's going to swallow the entire state of Colorado tomorrow. We're taking Brutus with us because we discovered that the one non-terrifying hotel in Amarillo* accepts pets at no extra charge AND we are quicker at calling dibs than Gary is. (Gary only has one brother and one much younger sister, whereas Sarah and I are the younger half of a set of four, so we learned early on the importance of calling dibs if you cared about things like eating dinner or sitting in a chair.) So Gary gets to make the 12 hour drive through the blizzard tomorrow night with the dog with the drinking problem.
Bravo's been doing this thing where he drinks and drinks and drinks until he blows up like a water balloon and we don't really know why. The vet says it's either a behavioral thing or he has a really rare condition called diabetes insipidus. (If it's the second, he'll have to take medication for the rest of his life, and if it's the first...I'm gonna kill him.) So they told us to do this thing where we had to figure out how much water the two of them were drinking together each day (34 cups) and we're supposed to reduce that by half a cup each day until they get down to the normal amount for two dogs (12 cups) at which point we'll take him back to the vet and they'll do a water deprivation test to see which one it is. Sound like a pain in the ass? WELL IT IS.
And that is the story of how Gary got stuck with Bravo.
THE END
*It's the La Quinta off I-40 in case you're wondering. How did we deduce that it's the only safe place to stay in Amarillo? Through several rigorous tests of trial and error. (Man, I really wanted to backlink to the blog post I was sure I wrote about the time we almost got murdered at a Super 8...but it appears that post never actually got written. IT HAPPENED, OKAY? This was the closest thing to anectodal evidence I could find. BUT, to redeem myself, while I was looking for it I came across THIS post from back in the day when my blog used to be funny as opposed to mostly about my dog's health problems.)
Sarah and I are driving down tonight so we can beat the big scary snowstorm that's going to swallow the entire state of Colorado tomorrow. We're taking Brutus with us because we discovered that the one non-terrifying hotel in Amarillo* accepts pets at no extra charge AND we are quicker at calling dibs than Gary is. (Gary only has one brother and one much younger sister, whereas Sarah and I are the younger half of a set of four, so we learned early on the importance of calling dibs if you cared about things like eating dinner or sitting in a chair.) So Gary gets to make the 12 hour drive through the blizzard tomorrow night with the dog with the drinking problem.
Bravo's been doing this thing where he drinks and drinks and drinks until he blows up like a water balloon and we don't really know why. The vet says it's either a behavioral thing or he has a really rare condition called diabetes insipidus. (If it's the second, he'll have to take medication for the rest of his life, and if it's the first...I'm gonna kill him.) So they told us to do this thing where we had to figure out how much water the two of them were drinking together each day (34 cups) and we're supposed to reduce that by half a cup each day until they get down to the normal amount for two dogs (12 cups) at which point we'll take him back to the vet and they'll do a water deprivation test to see which one it is. Sound like a pain in the ass? WELL IT IS.
And that is the story of how Gary got stuck with Bravo.
THE END
*It's the La Quinta off I-40 in case you're wondering. How did we deduce that it's the only safe place to stay in Amarillo? Through several rigorous tests of trial and error. (Man, I really wanted to backlink to the blog post I was sure I wrote about the time we almost got murdered at a Super 8...but it appears that post never actually got written. IT HAPPENED, OKAY? This was the closest thing to anectodal evidence I could find. BUT, to redeem myself, while I was looking for it I came across THIS post from back in the day when my blog used to be funny as opposed to mostly about my dog's health problems.)
Monday, December 19, 2011
I Don't Wanna Be a Toys R Us Kid
WARNING: I didn't mean for this to happen, but somewhere along the way, what started out as a mildly funny anecdote took a turn for the crazy and landed upside-down in Feminist Rantsville. So this might be a good time to change the channel if you don't care about my opinion and/or are the type of person who might stop reading my blog for any reason ever.
Yesterday I jokingly put up a FB status about not wanting children after a trip to Toys R Us. FIRST of all, let me take this opportunity to put the rumors to rest: Gary and I have no plans to rob the world of little tiny versions of ourselves. Now that you're all breathing easy again, I'll explain. We went to Toys R Us the weekend before Christmas because we want our adorable niece and nephew to love us and Walmart was sold out of the toy we were looking for. Oh and also we're idiots.
But it wasn't the high prices, the commercialization of Christmas or the crowds that bothered me. IT WAS THE BARBIE AISLE. (I realize Barbie dolls are not exclusively sold at Toys R Us, but that's where I was when I was looking at them, so what are ya gonna do?*)
It's funny how you can go through your whole life feeling pretty confident you're not a feminist, and then one day, out of the blue, you find yourself brandishing a burning bra while standing on top of a pile of pink cardboard boxes in the middle of a toy store, screaming through a megaphone for all the girls to, "STEP AWAY FROM THE STEREOTYPES. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO LEARN TO BAKE, DEVELOP A 'SHOE OBSESSION' OR DRESS LIKE A SLUT TO GET MEN TO LOVE YOU."
Hey, speaking of dressing like a slut! What is up with the girls' clothing section? (Toys R Us is off the hook on this one - we've now taken aim at Target. Get it?! Aim? At Target? Nevermind.) Can somebody PLEASE tell me why I had such a hard time finding an outfit for my five year old niece that wouldn't make her look like a hooker?
Okay, okay, maybe using words like "slut" and "hooker" are taking it a little too far. I'm sorry. Sometimes when I get upset my dirty mouth tends to run away with me.
But am I wrong in thinking there should be a recognizable difference between the clothes in the girls' section and those in the juniors' section? I don't know, this could totally just be me, but I'm not crazy about the idea of my daughter wearing sequins and skin-tight shirts before the age of ten. I want my girls to get muddy! And play with bugs! There's plenty of time to dress like a whore when you're a teenager with a job and you're spending your own money! (KIDDING. Kidding kidding kidding kidding.)
So my joke about not wanting kids didn't actually have anything to do with Toys R Us; it was more about the fact that I am now starting to wonder if my dream of raising daughters who are smart, funny, good-looking AND cool is even possible. (I don't really even care if they're good looking...in fact, in recent years I've been thinking that not being pretty during my junior high and early high school years might just be what kept me a virgin until I was married. BADA-BING!)
But seriously, folks...doesn't it seem like we should be past this kind of thing by now?
If you feel like reading more on the subject, STFU, Parents posted a really interesting article on FB last month that's kind of along these same lines. Read it here.
*Other than the obvious course of action, which is coming up with a weak play on the slogan to use as a blog post title.
Yesterday I jokingly put up a FB status about not wanting children after a trip to Toys R Us. FIRST of all, let me take this opportunity to put the rumors to rest: Gary and I have no plans to rob the world of little tiny versions of ourselves. Now that you're all breathing easy again, I'll explain. We went to Toys R Us the weekend before Christmas because we want our adorable niece and nephew to love us and Walmart was sold out of the toy we were looking for. Oh and also we're idiots.
But it wasn't the high prices, the commercialization of Christmas or the crowds that bothered me. IT WAS THE BARBIE AISLE. (I realize Barbie dolls are not exclusively sold at Toys R Us, but that's where I was when I was looking at them, so what are ya gonna do?*)
It's funny how you can go through your whole life feeling pretty confident you're not a feminist, and then one day, out of the blue, you find yourself brandishing a burning bra while standing on top of a pile of pink cardboard boxes in the middle of a toy store, screaming through a megaphone for all the girls to, "STEP AWAY FROM THE STEREOTYPES. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO LEARN TO BAKE, DEVELOP A 'SHOE OBSESSION' OR DRESS LIKE A SLUT TO GET MEN TO LOVE YOU."
Hey, speaking of dressing like a slut! What is up with the girls' clothing section? (Toys R Us is off the hook on this one - we've now taken aim at Target. Get it?! Aim? At Target? Nevermind.) Can somebody PLEASE tell me why I had such a hard time finding an outfit for my five year old niece that wouldn't make her look like a hooker?
Okay, okay, maybe using words like "slut" and "hooker" are taking it a little too far. I'm sorry. Sometimes when I get upset my dirty mouth tends to run away with me.
But am I wrong in thinking there should be a recognizable difference between the clothes in the girls' section and those in the juniors' section? I don't know, this could totally just be me, but I'm not crazy about the idea of my daughter wearing sequins and skin-tight shirts before the age of ten. I want my girls to get muddy! And play with bugs! There's plenty of time to dress like a whore when you're a teenager with a job and you're spending your own money! (KIDDING. Kidding kidding kidding kidding.)
So my joke about not wanting kids didn't actually have anything to do with Toys R Us; it was more about the fact that I am now starting to wonder if my dream of raising daughters who are smart, funny, good-looking AND cool is even possible. (I don't really even care if they're good looking...in fact, in recent years I've been thinking that not being pretty during my junior high and early high school years might just be what kept me a virgin until I was married. BADA-BING!)
But seriously, folks...doesn't it seem like we should be past this kind of thing by now?
If you feel like reading more on the subject, STFU, Parents posted a really interesting article on FB last month that's kind of along these same lines. Read it here.
*Other than the obvious course of action, which is coming up with a weak play on the slogan to use as a blog post title.
Friday, December 16, 2011
I'VE BEEN BAMBOOZLED!
(The title originates from a clip of the Muppet Show, which is available for your enjoyment here.)
I went to Lowes the other night because I needed some ceramic tiles for a super secret project I'm working on. A super secret CHRISTMAS project! So if you get a present made of tiles from me...act surprised/like you don't hate it.
ANYWAY Gary was too busy doing "homework" for "school" so he can "graduate and support our family" to accompany me, so I had to go it alone.
I took the truck, which always makes me feel a little (ha!) self conscious. Long story short, (Two in a row?! I am on a ROLL!) it is extremely difficult for me to get into. Gary recently put a 4-inch lift on it, making what used to be a moderately difficult task damn near impossible. I always try to park kind of far away from everyone else, partly to avoid any chance of crushing their tiny vehicles with my monster truck, and partly in hopes that no one will hear the little "HYUH!" that is necessary to propel me far enough upward to achieve a safe landing in the driver's seat.
I walked into Lowes, stared around in wonder for a few seconds, and immediately burst into tears. I'M A GIRL. AND NOT THE COOL, SELF-SUFFICIENT KIND THAT WOULD KNOW HER WAY AROUND A HARDWARE STORE; I'M THE KIND WHO'S NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE NEEDLE-NOSED PLIERS AT HOME ANYMORE BECAUSE OF THE OTHER NIGHT WHEN SHE MADE HERSELF BLEED THREE SEPARATE TIMES.
I figured I'd better suck it up and start looking. I began my search in the kitchen section, 'cause I feel like that's a place where there are usually tiles. No dice. (No tiles, either. Mbaha.) Then I thought I'd give the bathroom section a shot. There were toilets everywhere - oh, sooo many toilets - but again, no tiles. It figures that the one time I need help finding something is the one time I'm not being bombarded by overly-helpful employees asking me if I need help finding something.
I finally spotted a Lowes employee in the flooring department, so I walked over to him and said, "Hey...I'm sure this is the wrong department, but I'm looking for some...individual...ceramic...tiles...?" Then I included a very helpful visual using both my thumbs and pointer fingers.
The guy looked confused for a second before replying, "Well...this...is the right section. They're right back here. Are...you retarded?" (He didn't say that last part so much with his mouth as he did with his eyes.)
Then he asked, "You just want the white ones? Four inches?" Uhhh...duh! Didn't you see my finger square? I nodded and he walked me back to the end of the aisle and pointed to a box. I sheepishly thanked him, collected my tiles and headed to the front register to check out.
The lady at the checkout counter was SUPER nice. Her face lit up when she saw my tiles. "Ohhh! Are you doing that thing where you (THIS SECTION HAS BEEN REMOVED TO PRESERVE THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS)??? I just had someone else in here who was gonna do the same thing! And it's great because they're only ten cents ea---wait...that's weird...these ones look the same but they're thirty-five cents each..."
So as it turns out, THAT GUY IN THE FLOORING SECTION TRIED TO SWINDLE ME. He walked me PAST the ten cent tiles to get to the more expensive ones.
WHAT GIVES, FLOORING GUY??? DO YOU GET A COMMISSION ON CERAMIC TILE SALES??? Or do you just enjoy preying on unsuspecting women who don't know any better than to pay three times the normal price for tiles??? HUH???
WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?????????????????????????????????????????????
ALL THESE QUESTION MARKS DEMAND ANSWERS!
I'm guessing you saw the tears of frustration that were starting to pool up in my eyes and assumed I'd be easy pickings,* and you would have been right if it hadn't been for that sweet baby angel of mercy at the front register.** I realize the likelihood of you being one of the 44 people who read this blog isn't very good, but just in case you are, I want you to know that I AM SHAKING MY FIST IN VICTORIOUS FURY! For I know that as long as that Our Lady of Pinterest Projects is standing guard over the checkout line, SUCCESS SHALL BE BEYOND YOUR REACH!
*Also I've heard that Lowes employees are trained to smell fear and incompetence.
**She wasn't a baby; she was a grown woman. But she was an angel if ever there was one.
I went to Lowes the other night because I needed some ceramic tiles for a super secret project I'm working on. A super secret CHRISTMAS project! So if you get a present made of tiles from me...act surprised/like you don't hate it.
ANYWAY Gary was too busy doing "homework" for "school" so he can "graduate and support our family" to accompany me, so I had to go it alone.
I took the truck, which always makes me feel a little (ha!) self conscious. Long story short, (Two in a row?! I am on a ROLL!) it is extremely difficult for me to get into. Gary recently put a 4-inch lift on it, making what used to be a moderately difficult task damn near impossible. I always try to park kind of far away from everyone else, partly to avoid any chance of crushing their tiny vehicles with my monster truck, and partly in hopes that no one will hear the little "HYUH!" that is necessary to propel me far enough upward to achieve a safe landing in the driver's seat.
I walked into Lowes, stared around in wonder for a few seconds, and immediately burst into tears. I'M A GIRL. AND NOT THE COOL, SELF-SUFFICIENT KIND THAT WOULD KNOW HER WAY AROUND A HARDWARE STORE; I'M THE KIND WHO'S NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE NEEDLE-NOSED PLIERS AT HOME ANYMORE BECAUSE OF THE OTHER NIGHT WHEN SHE MADE HERSELF BLEED THREE SEPARATE TIMES.
I figured I'd better suck it up and start looking. I began my search in the kitchen section, 'cause I feel like that's a place where there are usually tiles. No dice. (No tiles, either. Mbaha.) Then I thought I'd give the bathroom section a shot. There were toilets everywhere - oh, sooo many toilets - but again, no tiles. It figures that the one time I need help finding something is the one time I'm not being bombarded by overly-helpful employees asking me if I need help finding something.
I finally spotted a Lowes employee in the flooring department, so I walked over to him and said, "Hey...I'm sure this is the wrong department, but I'm looking for some...individual...ceramic...tiles...?" Then I included a very helpful visual using both my thumbs and pointer fingers.
The guy looked confused for a second before replying, "Well...this...is the right section. They're right back here. Are...you retarded?" (He didn't say that last part so much with his mouth as he did with his eyes.)
Then he asked, "You just want the white ones? Four inches?" Uhhh...duh! Didn't you see my finger square? I nodded and he walked me back to the end of the aisle and pointed to a box. I sheepishly thanked him, collected my tiles and headed to the front register to check out.
The lady at the checkout counter was SUPER nice. Her face lit up when she saw my tiles. "Ohhh! Are you doing that thing where you (THIS SECTION HAS BEEN REMOVED TO PRESERVE THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS)??? I just had someone else in here who was gonna do the same thing! And it's great because they're only ten cents ea---wait...that's weird...these ones look the same but they're thirty-five cents each..."
So as it turns out, THAT GUY IN THE FLOORING SECTION TRIED TO SWINDLE ME. He walked me PAST the ten cent tiles to get to the more expensive ones.
WHAT GIVES, FLOORING GUY??? DO YOU GET A COMMISSION ON CERAMIC TILE SALES??? Or do you just enjoy preying on unsuspecting women who don't know any better than to pay three times the normal price for tiles??? HUH???
WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?????????????????????????????????????????????
ALL THESE QUESTION MARKS DEMAND ANSWERS!
I'm guessing you saw the tears of frustration that were starting to pool up in my eyes and assumed I'd be easy pickings,* and you would have been right if it hadn't been for that sweet baby angel of mercy at the front register.** I realize the likelihood of you being one of the 44 people who read this blog isn't very good, but just in case you are, I want you to know that I AM SHAKING MY FIST IN VICTORIOUS FURY! For I know that as long as that Our Lady of Pinterest Projects is standing guard over the checkout line, SUCCESS SHALL BE BEYOND YOUR REACH!
*Also I've heard that Lowes employees are trained to smell fear and incompetence.
**She wasn't a baby; she was a grown woman. But she was an angel if ever there was one.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
RiDQulous, Indeed.
So Dairy Queen has this thing called the Blizzard Fan Club. Six times a year, they email the members a buy-one-get-one-free coupon. Sarah is a member because, like most of us, she loves the idea of getting one hundred percent of something for fifty percent of the price. (Or I guess technically it's 200% of something for 100% of the price...whatever. MATH WAS NEVER MY STRONG SUIT.)
Three of our coworkers are also members, so yesterday afternoon the four of them decided to take their breaks at the same time so they could throw down on some half-price blizzies. They tried to go through the drive-thru, but when they asked if they could make three separate orders, the drive-thru girl replied, "No, we can only do two. If that."
If that? Wait...what? Why so cryptic? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN, DRIVE-THRU GIRL?
"No big deal," they all thought simultaneously, "we'll just go inside."
They went inside and walked up to the counter, only to be "greeted" by the same mysterious girl from the drive-thru. She had a black eye. Instead of the standard, "Hi, can I help you," they received a surly, "So, (looking down at the coupons) you guys here to rip us off?"
"We are confused," thought the Borg.* "These are legitimate coupons."
She then grudgingly proceeded to prepare their order with painful slowness.
I have two problems with this.
PROBLEM #1: Skipping over the glaringly obvious fact that using a Dairy Queen-issued coupon at a Dairy Queen doesn't qualify as ripping someone off, my real problem is that Sarah's not just my sister; she's my girl. And you don't mess with my girl.
PROBLEM #2: As a former drive-thru girl, I was personally appalled by this girl's behavior. Hasn't she read the DTG code of conduct? Here's an excerpt for reference:
*If you don't understand this reference, then you're probably not a nerd. Don't worry about it or look it up. Just brush it off and get on with your blissfully cool life.
**Okay, I can't speak for every drive-thru operator in America on this one. But I CAN speak for the good people at Taco Delite in Wylie, TX. Their employees understand that the drive-thru is a position of honor and is therefore to be treated with the utmost reverence and care.
***As if I could survive without ice cream. Burning down a building is one thing, but let's not get too carried away here.
****Hey, it's a holiday blog!
*****I LOVE THESE LITTLE STARS DON'T YOU?
Three of our coworkers are also members, so yesterday afternoon the four of them decided to take their breaks at the same time so they could throw down on some half-price blizzies. They tried to go through the drive-thru, but when they asked if they could make three separate orders, the drive-thru girl replied, "No, we can only do two. If that."
If that? Wait...what? Why so cryptic? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN, DRIVE-THRU GIRL?
"No big deal," they all thought simultaneously, "we'll just go inside."
They went inside and walked up to the counter, only to be "greeted" by the same mysterious girl from the drive-thru. She had a black eye. Instead of the standard, "Hi, can I help you," they received a surly, "So, (looking down at the coupons) you guys here to rip us off?"
"We are confused," thought the Borg.* "These are legitimate coupons."
She then grudgingly proceeded to prepare their order with painful slowness.
I have two problems with this.
PROBLEM #1: Skipping over the glaringly obvious fact that using a Dairy Queen-issued coupon at a Dairy Queen doesn't qualify as ripping someone off, my real problem is that Sarah's not just my sister; she's my girl. And you don't mess with my girl.
PROBLEM #2: As a former drive-thru girl, I was personally appalled by this girl's behavior. Hasn't she read the DTG code of conduct? Here's an excerpt for reference:
Q: When a customer annoys or inconveniences us, do we talk back to them?Sarah's a lover, not a fighter, so she's holding me back from doing anything rash like setting the store ablaze or boycotting ice cream*** but suffice it to say if I ever have the misfortune of finding myself in that particular establishment again (and based on the the thrice-asterisked footnote below, the odds of that happening are looking pretty good) you can bet your sweet tooth I'll be handing out stink eyes like candy on Christmas.****
A: No! We let it slide because we know that the reason they're in the drive-thru in the first place is that they've had a long, hard day and are too tired to make dinner!
Q: Do we, under any circumstances, stoop to spitting in their food or beverage?
A: HECK NO! Because we are LADIES and that is DISGUSTING!**
Q: Do we take an extra long time to prepare their order out of spite?
A: NO! Because we know that if we do ANY of these things, the customer's SISTER might HEAR about it and call the MANAGER of our RESTAURANT to COMPLAIN about our ATTITUDE. (Or at the very least, launch a full-scale Internet smear campaign.)
*If you don't understand this reference, then you're probably not a nerd. Don't worry about it or look it up. Just brush it off and get on with your blissfully cool life.
**Okay, I can't speak for every drive-thru operator in America on this one. But I CAN speak for the good people at Taco Delite in Wylie, TX. Their employees understand that the drive-thru is a position of honor and is therefore to be treated with the utmost reverence and care.
***As if I could survive without ice cream. Burning down a building is one thing, but let's not get too carried away here.
****Hey, it's a holiday blog!
*****I LOVE THESE LITTLE STARS DON'T YOU?
It's Like They KNOW Me
(But just in case you don't know me...this is funny because I can't afford real estate OR stocks.)
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Bad Boys Bad Boys
This may come as a shock to you, but my dogs are really bad sometimes.
I actually considered not posting anything about Gwynnie's untimely death because I was afraid people might judge me for failing to train my dogs effectively. (Oh, whoops. I guess I lied about it being a suicide. The truth is, she was murdered.) I mean we did train them, but I'm starting to think there are some things you just can't train out of a dog. Like being an a$$hole. (Oh, don't worry, it's okay because I didn't actually write the word. The kids won't know the difference.)
I'll be referring to the dogs by name in this post, so I thought I'd include some pictures for reference for those of you who don't Facebook stalk me religiously. (This is also my way of warning you early on that this post is about my dogs in case you'd rather go have an impromptu root canal than read one more post about my #$^%* dogs.) This is Bravo:
And this is Brutus:
Bravo had a vet appointment yesterday afternoon. I left work with just enough time to run home, pick him up and make it to the vet's office by 4:30, so I should have guessed that at about 4:15, both dogs would suddenly be in the mood for a quick sprint around the neighborhood. I grabbed Bravo first* because he's slower (and by that I mean fatter) and also more likely to get run over by a car right in front of me (and by that I mean he's dumb as a brick) than Brutus.
By the time I had wrangled him into the house, Brutus was nowhere in sight. I started doing that oh-so-subtle half-run, half-power walk you sometimes do when you're still in your work slacks and dress shoes and you're chasing your dog and you're starting to panic but you don't want anyone driving by to know anything's amiss.
"Oh. Just. Going for an awkwardly fast-paced stroll! Nothing to see here! BUT IF YOU SEE A HUSKY PLEASE GRAB HIM HE'S NICE."
Luckily some little boys happened to walk by and one of them was really fast, so before long everything was fine. I actually ended up making it to the vet on time, which is great because otherwise I don't know who I would have given all my money to.
THE END
*Okay, what I really did first was cuss really loud and then clap my hand over my mouth and pray that none of my neighbors heard me, 'cause a) that's not exactly the first impression I was hoping for and b) I'm pretty sure that particular combination of words just might give little old Mrs. Next Door a heart attack.
I actually considered not posting anything about Gwynnie's untimely death because I was afraid people might judge me for failing to train my dogs effectively. (Oh, whoops. I guess I lied about it being a suicide. The truth is, she was murdered.) I mean we did train them, but I'm starting to think there are some things you just can't train out of a dog. Like being an a$$hole. (Oh, don't worry, it's okay because I didn't actually write the word. The kids won't know the difference.)
I'll be referring to the dogs by name in this post, so I thought I'd include some pictures for reference for those of you who don't Facebook stalk me religiously. (This is also my way of warning you early on that this post is about my dogs in case you'd rather go have an impromptu root canal than read one more post about my #$^%* dogs.) This is Bravo:
And this is Brutus:
Bravo had a vet appointment yesterday afternoon. I left work with just enough time to run home, pick him up and make it to the vet's office by 4:30, so I should have guessed that at about 4:15, both dogs would suddenly be in the mood for a quick sprint around the neighborhood. I grabbed Bravo first* because he's slower (and by that I mean fatter) and also more likely to get run over by a car right in front of me (and by that I mean he's dumb as a brick) than Brutus.
By the time I had wrangled him into the house, Brutus was nowhere in sight. I started doing that oh-so-subtle half-run, half-power walk you sometimes do when you're still in your work slacks and dress shoes and you're chasing your dog and you're starting to panic but you don't want anyone driving by to know anything's amiss.
"Oh. Just. Going for an awkwardly fast-paced stroll! Nothing to see here! BUT IF YOU SEE A HUSKY PLEASE GRAB HIM HE'S NICE."
Luckily some little boys happened to walk by and one of them was really fast, so before long everything was fine. I actually ended up making it to the vet on time, which is great because otherwise I don't know who I would have given all my money to.
THE END
*Okay, what I really did first was cuss really loud and then clap my hand over my mouth and pray that none of my neighbors heard me, 'cause a) that's not exactly the first impression I was hoping for and b) I'm pretty sure that particular combination of words just might give little old Mrs. Next Door a heart attack.
Monday, December 12, 2011
The One With the Dead Body
I have terrible news.
Gwynnie died last night. I wish I could tell you she passed away peacefully in her sleep, but I think you're old enough for me to be straight with you. It wasn't pretty.
If you're new to the blog and don't know who Gwynnie is, her full name is Gwyneth Plantrow and she was the best plant anybody could ask for. Quiet, dignified, and never one to complain when I forgot to water her for weeks at a time. Or so I thought.
Here's a picture of her in her prime:
So young. So beautiful. You would have loved her, I just know it.
There were tiny police cars surrounding our house when we got home last night. This is what we found when we got inside:
They found this note, written in Gwynnie's own blood:
As you can probably imagine, I was devastated, but Gary was damn near inconsolable.
It's one of those things you never think will happen to you, and then one day you're staring down at a dismembered plant carcass on your kitchen counter.
So those of you who are lucky enough to still have one, go give your plant a hug. Because life's too short not to hug a plant.
Gwynnie died last night. I wish I could tell you she passed away peacefully in her sleep, but I think you're old enough for me to be straight with you. It wasn't pretty.
If you're new to the blog and don't know who Gwynnie is, her full name is Gwyneth Plantrow and she was the best plant anybody could ask for. Quiet, dignified, and never one to complain when I forgot to water her for weeks at a time. Or so I thought.
Here's a picture of her in her prime:
So young. So beautiful. You would have loved her, I just know it.
There were tiny police cars surrounding our house when we got home last night. This is what we found when we got inside:
They found this note, written in Gwynnie's own blood:
As you can probably imagine, I was devastated, but Gary was damn near inconsolable.
It's one of those things you never think will happen to you, and then one day you're staring down at a dismembered plant carcass on your kitchen counter.
So those of you who are lucky enough to still have one, go give your plant a hug. Because life's too short not to hug a plant.
Friday, December 9, 2011
EmergiCarry Me Home
This week I had my first experience with EmergiCare.
It all started Monday night with my all time favorite food - a ground beef burrito from Monica's Taco Shop. It was delicious as usual.
About half an hour later, I was hanging out with a few of my favorite high school friends when my stomach started to hurt. Then it started to hurt some more, then more still. I figured I better get outta there, 'cause if I was gonna throw up, the last place I wanted to be was within earshot of thirty teenagers.
When I got home, I did everything I could think of to avoid throwing up. I laid down on my side, but it didn't make any difference. I took some Pepto, but that just made it worse. I changed from jeans into a pair of pants with virtually no elastic left in the waistband, but it was no use.
"Alright, Emily. It seems you're all out of options. Let's do this." (Uhh...that was me talking. To myself. In case that was unclear.)
As I knelt down in preparation to do the deed, I was struck by how absurd this whole "throwing up" business really is. I mean, you have to be pretty desperate for relief if it's come to a point where you're willing to put your face in a place where poop usually goes.
So I'll spare you the gory details, but I got sick. And for the first few minutes afterward, I felt better. "That wasn't so bad," I thought to myself. "I'll just pretend I'm doing research for an article like a realboy! I mean journalist. I'm sure this will be really funny later when I'm writing the blog." But by round 3, I was cussing the blog into oblivion.
Tuesday afternoon I still felt awful (even though the vomiting had mercifully come to a halt) so I decided to call my doctor. They said they couldn't get me in until the following morning. The thought of a repeat performance of the previous night's events made me want to puke (no pun intended...oh how I wish there were a pun intended) so I had Gary take me to EmergiCare.
They did a rapid flu test (which is a fancy way of saying they shoved a giant q-tip up my nose and swabbed my brain) and the results came up negative, so I kind of started to wonder if I was making the whole thing up. I figured they'd probably tell me to drink more water and send me on my way, but to my surprise they said I needed an iv of saline because I was severely dehydrated.
This is another part where I will spare you the details of how I almost passed out at the sight of my own blood pooling up in the little nozzle thing that goes in your arm. (Oh, uh...I guess I didn't spare you the details at all. WHAT? I'm still on medication, okay?)
A couple of hours later I went home and waited for the saline solution to work its magic. I waited. And waited. Took a nap. Waited some more. And then I snapped.
WHAT THE HECK?!? WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER? I WENT TO EMERGICARE! IT HAS THE WORD EMERGENCY IN IT! Okay not exactly but it has the prefix - YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!
WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER INSTANTLY?!
And that is the story of howI met your mother all my illusions were shattered.
The moral of this story is that even when all signs point to food poisoning, there's still a good chance you'll catch your husband heating up the other half of the burrito that almost killed you.
THE END
It all started Monday night with my all time favorite food - a ground beef burrito from Monica's Taco Shop. It was delicious as usual.
About half an hour later, I was hanging out with a few of my favorite high school friends when my stomach started to hurt. Then it started to hurt some more, then more still. I figured I better get outta there, 'cause if I was gonna throw up, the last place I wanted to be was within earshot of thirty teenagers.
When I got home, I did everything I could think of to avoid throwing up. I laid down on my side, but it didn't make any difference. I took some Pepto, but that just made it worse. I changed from jeans into a pair of pants with virtually no elastic left in the waistband, but it was no use.
"Alright, Emily. It seems you're all out of options. Let's do this." (Uhh...that was me talking. To myself. In case that was unclear.)
As I knelt down in preparation to do the deed, I was struck by how absurd this whole "throwing up" business really is. I mean, you have to be pretty desperate for relief if it's come to a point where you're willing to put your face in a place where poop usually goes.
So I'll spare you the gory details, but I got sick. And for the first few minutes afterward, I felt better. "That wasn't so bad," I thought to myself. "I'll just pretend I'm doing research for an article like a real
Tuesday afternoon I still felt awful (even though the vomiting had mercifully come to a halt) so I decided to call my doctor. They said they couldn't get me in until the following morning. The thought of a repeat performance of the previous night's events made me want to puke (no pun intended...oh how I wish there were a pun intended) so I had Gary take me to EmergiCare.
They did a rapid flu test (which is a fancy way of saying they shoved a giant q-tip up my nose and swabbed my brain) and the results came up negative, so I kind of started to wonder if I was making the whole thing up. I figured they'd probably tell me to drink more water and send me on my way, but to my surprise they said I needed an iv of saline because I was severely dehydrated.
This is another part where I will spare you the details of how I almost passed out at the sight of my own blood pooling up in the little nozzle thing that goes in your arm. (Oh, uh...I guess I didn't spare you the details at all. WHAT? I'm still on medication, okay?)
A couple of hours later I went home and waited for the saline solution to work its magic. I waited. And waited. Took a nap. Waited some more. And then I snapped.
WHAT THE HECK?!? WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER? I WENT TO EMERGICARE! IT HAS THE WORD EMERGENCY IN IT! Okay not exactly but it has the prefix - YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!
WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER INSTANTLY?!
And that is the story of how
The moral of this story is that even when all signs point to food poisoning, there's still a good chance you'll catch your husband heating up the other half of the burrito that almost killed you.
THE END
Monday, December 5, 2011
What's Cooler Than Being Cool? FREEZING TO DEATH!
Either I'm crazy or my thermostat's been playing tricks on me. And I think we all know I'm not crazy.
I woke up yesterday evening from a power nap convinced we must have turned the heat off by accident because I couldn't feel my toes (although looking back, that may have been because the black and white tub of lard masquerading as our younger dog was curled up on my legs, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities.)
I wrapped myself in a blanket, shuffled across the living room and squinted at the thermostat. It read 69 degrees.
"Hmm. It must just seem colder because I haven't been moving around," I thought to myself.
I rubbed my hands together, jogged in place for a few seconds, and then started to do some jumping jacks but had to stop abruptly when I accidentally kicked Bravo in the face. After about twenty minutes of kneeling next to him and assuring him in the sweetest, most non-abusive voice I could manage that he did not deserve to be kicked in the face, no matter how many times he peed on my carpet, he seemed to feel better, but I was back at square one. (For those of you who've never been there, it's really, really cold at square one.)
I could have sworn I heard the faintest chuckle coming from the corner where the thermostat is mounted, but the thought was driven from my mind when I remembered that we have a fireplace! I set about starting a fire, but no matter how many times I said out loud, "Honey, I'm cold," nothing happened. Then I remembered that Gary was out getting pizza because I didn't feel like making dinner or driving in the snow.
Defeated, I trudged into my room to construct a blanket fort under which I could change into warmer clothes. (This was to ensure the least possible exposure of my skin to the biting cold. Wouldn't want any unsightly teeth marks.) I put on sweatpants, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over my head, gloves, and those ridiculous slippers with the faux fur around the top and pom poms hanging off the front...and still! FREEZING. It was as if I could feel the frost starting to form on the surface of my brain - specifically localized in the region that regulates self control.
That was when I heard the laughing again, this time much more pronounced.
I stomped over to the thermostat and glared at its obnoxious little digital face, still obstinately stamped with 69° and the hint of a smile...and that was when I blacked out.
The next thing I remember is Gary shaking me awake.
"Sweetie...? Why are...all these wires pulled out of the wall? And where's the thermostat?"
I still don't know the answer to his questions. All I know is that there's a good deal of drywall caked under my fingernails, I have a strange plastic-y taste in my mouth, and I had no appetite by the time Gary made it home with the pizza.
On second thought...maybe I am crazy.
I woke up yesterday evening from a power nap convinced we must have turned the heat off by accident because I couldn't feel my toes (although looking back, that may have been because the black and white tub of lard masquerading as our younger dog was curled up on my legs, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities.)
I wrapped myself in a blanket, shuffled across the living room and squinted at the thermostat. It read 69 degrees.
"Hmm. It must just seem colder because I haven't been moving around," I thought to myself.
I rubbed my hands together, jogged in place for a few seconds, and then started to do some jumping jacks but had to stop abruptly when I accidentally kicked Bravo in the face. After about twenty minutes of kneeling next to him and assuring him in the sweetest, most non-abusive voice I could manage that he did not deserve to be kicked in the face, no matter how many times he peed on my carpet, he seemed to feel better, but I was back at square one. (For those of you who've never been there, it's really, really cold at square one.)
I could have sworn I heard the faintest chuckle coming from the corner where the thermostat is mounted, but the thought was driven from my mind when I remembered that we have a fireplace! I set about starting a fire, but no matter how many times I said out loud, "Honey, I'm cold," nothing happened. Then I remembered that Gary was out getting pizza because I didn't feel like making dinner or driving in the snow.
Defeated, I trudged into my room to construct a blanket fort under which I could change into warmer clothes. (This was to ensure the least possible exposure of my skin to the biting cold. Wouldn't want any unsightly teeth marks.) I put on sweatpants, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over my head, gloves, and those ridiculous slippers with the faux fur around the top and pom poms hanging off the front...and still! FREEZING. It was as if I could feel the frost starting to form on the surface of my brain - specifically localized in the region that regulates self control.
That was when I heard the laughing again, this time much more pronounced.
I stomped over to the thermostat and glared at its obnoxious little digital face, still obstinately stamped with 69° and the hint of a smile...and that was when I blacked out.
The next thing I remember is Gary shaking me awake.
"Sweetie...? Why are...all these wires pulled out of the wall? And where's the thermostat?"
I still don't know the answer to his questions. All I know is that there's a good deal of drywall caked under my fingernails, I have a strange plastic-y taste in my mouth, and I had no appetite by the time Gary made it home with the pizza.
On second thought...maybe I am crazy.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Supportive Evidence for the Efficacy of Early Brainwashing
I still think about this every time I brush my teeth.
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