Last Friday my work sent everyone home early because of a snowstorm. It was such a joyous occasion, I braved the slick roads and drove directly to a local fabric store. I was on the hunt for some yarn I needed to finish a project and not one to waste an opportunity, I also scoured the clearance section for any gems.
Today we’re in the grips of another potential blizzard and I’m hoping to be released again early. I was supposed to assist a CSS workshop tonight but it’s already been canceled, which is perfect since Lost is on. Have we talked about that yet? This is the final season and I’m chomping at the bit for some heart-stopping, jaw-dropping answers to all the crazy questions we’ve been inundated with over the years.
With that, I’m going to do it up bullet style since all the thoughts streaming out of my noggin are a bit tangential:
Did you know that Vanna White has her own brand of yarn? I never pegged her as a knitter but I guess in addition to those letter-turnin’ skillz, she likes to get her purl on.
I took Abbs to the vet recently because her ear seemed to be bothering her and she’d had an ear infection a few weeks’ prior. Turned out she had another one but treating it is like trying to drink pudding through a stir straw. During her puppy-hood, she let it be known that she does not like her ears (or paws) to be touched, which is quite a shame because they’re so damn adorable. As such, trying to put drops in her ears is a ridiculous spectacle during which she resists as though I were setting her on fire, only finally relenting at arm’s length by hanging her head to the ground and facing in whatever direction is most inconvenient. If I manage to get a few drops into her actual ear, she then shakes her head violently and huffs out of the room. Still I melt and rush to her side when she scratches her ear and lets out a pathetic, pained groan. Poor bippy’s got me wrapped around her little paw, which should not be touched under any circumstances!
A few weeks ago, I made spaghetti with artichoke hearts and tomatoes for the girls and it was a hit. I used half-and-half instead of cream but I think next time I’ll skip it all together because the dish was rich enough with the olive oil and cheese. In the future I’ll also substitute veggie stock for the chicken broth so it’s vegetarian. I didn’t have any chives on hand so I used basil instead, which gave it a yummy pesto-y tinge. Mmmmm!
In the late 90s, I got really into scrapbooking and was gifted with a laminator. I haven’t used it in at least 6 years and it’s big and bulky so the time has come for this mother to go to Goodwill. I’ve held onto it thinking I would use it but the rare instances in which it might be useful don’t make up for the pain-in-the-ass of storing it. What I’m saying here is, I need permission to let go of my laminator. Could you be a lamb and tell me it’s OK so I can move on? Theeenks!
Have I mentioned that I don’t like shopping? It somehow triggers a convergence of my neuroses and I find myself loathing every minute. I go to great lengths to get in and out with a minimum of muss and fuss. And so last week, when I finally made it to the checkout after an especially big haul, I was ready to abandon my cart and run screaming from the store. I started loading my things onto a rickety conveyor belt and when I picked up a package of q-tips from my cart, its cardboard lid fell off and q-tips spilled everywhere. The look on the cashier’s face told me that had we been in the wild, he would’ve chased me a short distance, followed by mauling me and defiling my carcass all while a British gentleman narrated the kill in a tense, hushed voice.
The exception to my anti-shopping rule is of course fabric and craft stores. I can spend hours in one, completely unaware of the passage of time, finally emerging with a maniacal grin on my face and my clothes covered in multi-colored threads from the 70 bolts of fabric I sorted through. Although I love that kind of shopping, packing and moving last year forced me to come to grips with how much crafty accoutrement I had accumulated. My fabric stash was especially shameful, given I’d only been sewing for a few years. And so in 2009, I banned any craft and fabric purchases. I stuck to my guns too, except for 2 yards I bought at IKEA in Chicago.
Most recently, this easy-peasy tute got me knitting again. I just finished a hat for myself and am working on one for Moxy to match the scarf I knitted her last Christmas. But when I ran out of yarn the other night and had to go to Jo-Ann Fabric after such a long absence, I wondered if I might experience some sort of sensory overload and pass out in the remnants bin. Fortunately I left with only a skein of yarn and a pom-pom maker and so perhaps I’ll narrowly avoid a guest appearance on Hoarders after all.
I just ate a juicy pink grapefruit and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t delicious! While I regret the carbon emissions that facilitated such a luxury in the dead of an Indiana winter, I delighted in the fleeting moment I was transported to an island oasis, where a soft breeze feathered my hair and a buff Islander laughed at my TWSS jokes.
This morning while getting ready, I actually said out loud, “I’m too tired to put a bra on.”* It’s been a long week, culminating in the realization that I now have to wear my glasses to drive when it’s dark and rainy. Last night I nearly had 10 accidents on the way to an appointment, veering hither and yon into exits and onto curbs. Just before arousing too much suspicion, I remembered my glasses which seemed to help a little. Then I snapped, “I’m not driving in the dark in the rain ever again!” As I heard the words coming angrily out of my mouth, the inevitability of becoming just like my parents landed in my lap with a smug thud. Ahhh, adulthood!
In the interest in full disclosure, I need to address two rumors you may’ve read about in the press:
I haven’t taken down my Christmas tree yet, and
I thoroughly enjoyed, nay reveled in every single moment of Jersey Shore. I know it’s shameful and obnoxious but I was hooked before Pauly D. had a chance to finish his blow out. Each episode, I sat before my television completely transfixed, unable to parse the bombarding stimuli of a cultural phenomenon being born. Afterward the girls and I would debrief, discussing which moment was the most outlandish from each episode’s plethora of insanity. I even tried out the Jersey Shore nickname generator and would prefer it if you refer to me as The Tan-trum from now on. GTL 4evah!!
*Rest assured I ended up wearing a suitable foundation garment. As Truvy said, “I haven’t left the house without lycra on these thighs since I was 14.”
Guess what? If you miss a few days of work and your antique laptop should suddenly die, so you are unable to go about your normal virtual activities, the Internet, much like Celine Dion’s heart, will go on without you. Can you believe that?? I don’t know exactly what I expected. Maybe some sort of Save Ferris-esque campaign and yet today when I logged on to my computer at work, once again connecting myself with the ether, there was no fanfare or confetti. Internet, didn’t you miss me at all?
I would love nothing more than to toss my laptop off the nearest overpass but it contains valuable photo documentation that despite my ignored, dusty resolution lists from the last few years, I did, in fact, exist and do some things and be with some people and stuff. I decided I’m willing to throw about $100 at this problem before declaring it’s the universe’s way of wiping my slate clean. Because of a litany of snooze-worthy dets, I’ve found the cheapest solution is to mail my laptop to my friend Lisa, who lives in Bloomington and works at the IU Library where it can be operated on for a minimal fee, since I work for the University. (You might think the same services would be offered on the Indianapolis campus too but you’d be wrong.) For tradsies I’m making Lisa a purse, which I hope will make up for the rigmarole.
That said, I’m back in the classroom this week for the first time in nearly 2 months so I won’t have time to even mail the damn thing until Thursday. That means I can expect at least another week until I resume my normal evening Internet activity, such as downloading pr0n and blogging.
What I’m saying is, things may be quiet around here for the next few days unless I go to the library, which I won’t because I’m a lazy sod. Thank you for your continued patience (and I’ll overlook those of you whom I saw pointing and laughing.)
Sorry this is late. (I should put that on my business cards, huh?)
(Nothing can be properly commemorated without a tacky animated GIF, right?)
For the last month or so, I’ve read lots of best-of lists, some for 2009 and some for the decade. That got me thinking about what things from 2009 I’d give props to and an idea was born → the first annual MymBOs: Mymsie’s Best of 2009! Please note that no company has been foolish enough to pay me to plug their product. No, these are just a few things I encountered over the year that I liked and want to tell you about. Enjoy and feel free to share your faves in the comments. Read the rest of this entry »
On the way to work this morning, I heard that the temperature’s not supposed to get above freezing for the next week. I do find solace in the knowledge that it’s cold most everywhere, at least relatively speaking. I took my Dad to the airport this afternoon and he was shocked to learn that the low in Ft. Lauderdale today was 39°. I’m ashamed to say my German minor in college left me with enough Schadenfreude to thoroughly enjoy imagining all the poor Floridians shivering too.
The icy cold weather sucks my will to live in three (3) primary ways:
Abby has been blessed with a warm, woolly double coat best suited for this type of weather, meaning she likes to linger outside for at least a half an hour before deciding, “I’ll poop later so we can come outside again and enjoy the cold!”
The static cling generated by my hair/coat/scarf/hat/mittens is relentless. Last night while shopping at Target, I yelped at least three times when tempting objects on metal shelves shocked the hell out of me.
My lips? They are chapped. Like really badly. And I have a theory that the more you use lip balm, the more your lips become dependent on it and the worse off they are.
Surprisingly I was sort of grateful to return to work today and resume a normal schedule that doesn’t include frequent napping and Lindt truffle consumption. Unfortunately it’s inventory week and everyone has to help. I’m an Auditor, which means I randomly check other people’s counts. The only exciting part of the job is that I get a fancy clipboard and special red pen and well, I’m not afraid to use them. I don’t want to call anyone out but if you see someone with red marks all over their face, you’ll know not to trust their arithmetic skills.
For the last 10+ years come hell or high water, I’ve sent out holiday cards. I really enjoy doing it, especially using fun pens and stickers but this year I ran out of time and decided to cut myself some slack. I also normally whip up 50+ adorably decorated candy treat bags for my coworkers but let that go by the wayside too to instead focus on more important endeavors (see also: Truffles, Not Eating So Damn Many.) So in lieu of a proper papyrus greeting, I hope you enjoyed the holidays and best wishes for a wonderful 2010!
I hate to admit this because it’s rather Scroogey but it drives me bonkers when people wear bells around the holidays. There are a few women at my job who do, including one who wears bell earrings AND a bell necklace. In all honestly every time she jingles gaily by my office I want to rip those bells off her person and shout, “Santa has heel spurs and type 2 diabetes!” Naturally I refrain from any such behavior but in my mind it happens along with a myriad of other fantasy events such as me and Robert Downey Jr. engaged in a naked, brownie-baking tete-a-tete.
This weekend, Moxy’s boyfriend came to the rescue and put together my IKEA dining-table-cum-sewing-desk. The speed with which he did this compared to my ineptitude in such endeavors is terribly mortifying. In my mind, the project would take hours and maybe even require a backhoe and an overnight break but he whipped that mother into one piece in no time, pausing only to take off his shirt and chest heaving like a brutish Satyr, ask us to rub his pectorals with oil. Being unfamiliar with the etiquette of carpentry, Moxy and I had no choice but to comply and beware of splinters.
The box my desk came in was too awkward and heavy for me to lift out of my trunk so I figured I’d ask whoever I paid to put it together to haul it inside. In typical me fashion, it’s been in my trunk since I bought it last summer. Pete estimated that the box weighed about 100 pounds. I just realized that now that it’s out, I’ll probably get better gas mileage!
I can tell I’m ready for a break. Other than the usual symptoms like oh, I don’t know, getting distracted a lot, I’ve been finding any excuse to put off actually working. Earlier in the week, I canceled a meeting with my boss because the scroll wheel on my mouse broke. I know. I ended up thinking about what type of work I need to be doing to feel truly fulfilled. That’s right – I found some utility in shirking my responsibilities! While my mouse was being replaced, I hung out in the call center and tried to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing, researching Google Analytics. I kept getting frustrated pouring over a droll technical manual and found myself listening to the hum of work around me. I thought, “I would much rather be answering calls and taking orders” but then felt guilty, especially given how hard I’ve worked to have an intellectually stimulating job.
My freshman and sophomore years of college, I did administrative work for an IT department at IU. Over the years, I worked my way up and by the time I graduated, was an assistant editor. During that time and especially right after I graduated, I worked my arse off to make sure I didn’t get stuck in an administrative job. It’s VERY important for me to clarify that I do not think admin work is beneath me. I’ve done it before and may do it again. I also don’t think it’s easy. In fact, in my experience it’s quite difficult and thankless despite the fact that support staff are usually the ones keeping universities and companies afloat. That said, I was worried I’d feel stuck and unhappy doing that type of work my whole life. Now at 33, I see the potential benefits of having a job that grants some intellectual reprieve. The responsibility of meeting ever-advancing career goals is wrought with worry, which I always have enough of in my life. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m grateful to be where I am but the older I get, the more I wonder if striving to meet some arbitrary definition of success is that important to me. And if I am going to throw my all into a job, it damn well better be something I really care about. Since I graduated, my jobs have gradually become more and more IT focused until my current position, which doesn’t involve even a smidgen of writing. This coming year, I’m going to throw myself into freelance writing. My free time has been waylaid by well-compensated freelance Web work and while it’s greatly increased the number of purses I have, it’s not making my skirt fly up. It’s time for me to face my fear of someone saying, “You’re a terrible writer and you’ll never succeed.” It’s time for me to give what I love doing a proper try! *fast forward to me smoking a cigar and copyediting Playgirl articles*
What’s that you say? You want the latest from the land of Internet dating? Well you know I’m always more than happy to oblige (but not on the first date – hooooo!) So the site I’m on has an instant messaging feature. It’s been useful maybe once or twice but mostly just provides a steady stream of unseemly offers. I logged on the other day to check my messages and was hit with this winner:
Oh xxjumpman87xx, isn’t the indignity of Internet dating enough? Must we also completely strip our interactions of polite chit chat and warm-up banter? I mean, what is there to lose by paying homage to Emily Post? Even if you’re only interested in Making Sexy Times, wouldn’t it at least be nice to have something to talk about while you’re getting dressed afterward?
There’s a lot more to say on that topic, but for now let’s talk poo. Lately I’ve been preoccupied with it. In truth I’m predisposed to this sort of puerile pondering because my parents were relatively strict about the ways my brother and I were allowed to refer to that sort of thing. The end result is that we’re both in our 30s and giggle like Beavis and Butthead any time we hear a pseudonym for poo, with the perfunctory “bowel movement” being the absolute funniest phrase a human being can utter. In fact at a family holiday celebration about 10 years ago, far past a time when either my brother or I had the excuse of youth, my Mom got so frustrated with our poo talk and was so desperate for us to leave the kitchen she blurted out, “Why don’t you go bowel movement on the stairs!” Yes, I’m sorry to say an adult with a Ph.D. was forced to say that to her two adult children, one of whom was in the process of acquiring a college education. Unfortunately it only fueled our methane-fumed fire and now we frequently joke about pooping on stairs.
With that in mind, I hung out with my friend George recently. George owns a house and told me about a block in his sewer line. I’ve never known anyone who had a problem like this, made all the more interesting because it involved poo. The journalist in me had to know every last detail but what I learned has basically derailed my life. Have you ever thought about what happens after you flush? George told me the gist (which may or may not be correct) and it’s my understanding that after a great deal of treatment, that poo and the poo of thousands of others is in our drinking water. Is this true? Did you know about this? How can we be expected to go on under these circumstances? Can someone please shed some light on this terrible topic in the hopes that one day, I’ll be able to sleep again without visions of poo dancing in my head?
Thank you.
P.S. Suddenly it’s occurring to me that my poo leanings and Internet dating plight might not be unrelated. Thoughts?
I’ve spent the last few days lurching around like an arthritic robot. I managed to sleep in the perfect position one night to completely kink up my neck. I was in especially desperate pain at work when a coworker covertly slipped me a tiny package labeled The Pain Terminator. I’ve been watching Seinfeld DVDs lately, so I instantly thought of the episode when Elaine hurt her back and took too many muscle relaxers:
Fortunately, I checked the fine print on The Pain Terminator package and found it was merely acetaminophen but imagining Arnold Schwarzenegger’s brawn behind an over-the-counter pain killer gave me the oomph I needed to get through the day.
In other news, I am completely mesmerized by Lady Gaga’s latest video. It’s so bizarre and intriguing, I can’t stop watching:
Imagine when they story-boarded it. “Ok, so do we want the man in the metal beard to catch fire before or after the spastic dancers clad in white pleather body suits with rooster combs come out of the pods?” It is refreshing for a pop star to be unique and creative and a great singer/song-writer.
And finally, I have a bit of bad news to share and a request for help. Moxy’s dating a sweet new boy (hi Pete!) whose family has been through hell the last few weeks. Pete’s brother Gabe was walking the dog one night when he was robbed at gun point. After the robbers ran away, Gabe did too and they shot him, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. (Full story here.) All for $20. Isn’t it awful? I still can’t wrap my mind around such a tragedy. Gabe and his wife have a new baby and are now saddled with the costs of physical therapy and fitting their home so Gabe can get around in his wheelchair. If you could find it in your heart to donate even a few bucks to their cause, I know they’d be so grateful. When terrible things like this happen, it’s a reminder how much we need one another. Please give!
This weekend, Moxy’s boyfriend came to the rescue and put together my 
Thoughts?
