I’ve had the heebie jeebies for the last 24 hours. Thankfully after a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, my worst fears were allayed. My friends and I rented cabins in northern Indiana last weekend. We had a ball splashing in a nearby lake and irritating the locals. By Monday, I was exhausted from all the fun and took the day off work. I ended up hanging with Moxy at her pool, which sits in front of a picturesque lake. Monday evening, I discovered 10+ mosquito bites on the tops of each foot. Comforted only by what my Dad used to tell me when I was little (”You got so many bug bites because you’re so sweet!”), I nearly scratched myself to death. I tried several over-the-counter remedies all to no avail. Yesterday someone saw the little red bumps on my feet and suggested they weren’t bug bites. I immediately went into panic mode, remembering my friends’ horror stories about getting scabies from the sand during spring break. Naturally, a Google search (trust me, you don’t want to look) only heightened my panic. I steadied myself and made a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon. All morning I mulled over how I’d become the poster child for scabies awareness, assuring anyone who’d listen that I wasn’t dirty or promiscuous. Luckily the doctor took a thorough look at my feet and solemnly informed me I just had some nasty bug bites. PHEW!!
To avoid anymore outdoorsy debacles, Moxy and I are headed to Chicago this weekend to attend a sexy party and visit IKEA, where I plan to buy a sewing table. I’ve never been to an IKEA before and it’s shameful how excited I am. Plants, fabric, Swedish meatballs, and furniture with names like Ektop Blorp and Sven Gablooten! Stay tuned for a riveting post spending frenzy debriefing.
One day last week, my boss’s boss darted into my office and made room for my boss, who was right behind him holding some papers. My heart sank, certain I was being fired. I remembered something Lean had told me recently. Apparently Suze Ormanrecommends you have 8 months of living expenses saved up in case you lose your job, which while perfectly practical is also infuriatingly unrealistic for the average person. I must’ve looked terrified because my boss said, “There’s nothing wrong. It’s good news.” He proceeded to give me an award and a $100 gift card for all my hard work building the new Web site! His boss wanted to thank me too and told me my boss had gone out of his way to make sure I was recognized. Wowsers – isn’t that wonderful? I was super chuffed but promptly deflated moments later when with one rogue bit of code, I broke the checkout page on our Web site. Good thing I’d already gotten the gift card!
Remember Alfred of Facebook fame? I taught a class with him this week and he apologized for his hijinks. (I ended up leaving a sarky, there’s-truth-in-jest comment on his Facebook page.) He also declared that karma got the best of him because someone hit his brand new car a few days after he bought it. Poor Alfy.
And finally, Indiana residents be afraid for this man is employed by your state government:
Parents, teachers, gather ’round! Let us join together and laugh mockingly at the well-honed looks of terror we dole out to keep our charges in check. Many of us first saw these frowns as children when we found ourselves elbow-deep in mischief. Our elders need only give a single, withering glance and we knew to shape up, lest we be sold to the next traveling circus that passed through town. I can clearly recall whispering with my friend Angie during the sermon in church one Sunday only to look up and catch such a glare delivered stealthily by my Mom from the choir loft.
I was reminded of the power of The Look when I was forced to use it this weekend. I taught a Photoshop Elements workshop on Saturday and one participant was particularly disruptive. I’ve learned from experience that when all else fails, swift delivery of The Look (held for several uncomfortable seconds) always takes care of the problem.
I thought I’d document my look for you:
Funny, that face feels more stern than it looks. I might be mistaken for a mathematician working on a particularly difficult word problem rather than a frustrated teacher at the end of her tether. Still it has the necessary effect because the indolent blabbermouth stopped her nonsense immediately.
And now I challenge you to capture your look and share it with the blogosphere. Come on, it’ll be fun!
Despite its thorough exposition of social mores, I don’t recall the chapter in Pride & Prejudice when Elizabeth was upset with Mr. Darcy for “friending” his ex on Facebook. No, these are problems unique to the new millennium and the blurry protocols for dealing with them often leave us dangling helplessly over the precipice of impropriety. To wit, I give you my most recent frustration born of social media:
I work with an instructor, let’s called him Alfred, who was scheduled to assist a workshop on Wednesday. On Monday, our supervisor sent this e-mail:
Due to an unfortunate auto accident, Alfred will not be able to assist the Unix workshop Wednesday evening. Thankfully Alfred is OK, but is tied up with the aftermath of insurance paperwork and car replacement. Is anyone able/interested in assisting this workshop for Alfred?
I like Alfred and know the trauma of car accidents all too well so I volunteered. The next day, I logged into Facebook and noticed these updates on Alfred’s page:
I felt a teensy pang of annoyance that he had a car on Tuesday and wouldn’t assist on Wednesday but knew he couldn’t have predicted how long his car search would take and aside from the purchase, there’s always a lot of red tape and paperwork to deal with in these situations as well.
Unfortunately, my waning pang of annoyance turned into a fiery ball of rage when I logged into Facebook on Wednesday evening and saw this:
Poor Alfred was so traumatized by his accident he couldn’t assist but could swill beer and participate in some contest for mouth-breathers at a local bar! And here’s what: if you’re going to do something like that, don’t brag on Facebook, where I’m certain to read about it since we often comment on each other’s statuses!
So what should I do? In truth, I probably won’t say anything (except behind his back – haha) but trust me, the next time Alfred needs a hand, I will not offer mine!
P.S. This post is dedicated to Lean, who is completely besotted with Matthew Macfadyen.
Yesterday I did something pretty dumb, only to be surpassed by doing it again tonight. As of 10:30 p.m., I’ve washed two, count ‘em, TWO loads of laundry without adding detergent. I realized my mistake after the first load last night but apparently my short-term memory is full because I did it again tonight. Is this a bad sign? Should I be doing more crossword puzzles?
Hey, I know what! Let’s talk about my new favorite bev, FUZE Slenderize*. It rocks my socks because it’s made with real fruit juice but only has 10 calories per serving and tastes fresh and sweet and delicious! It’s a little spency but totally worth its weight in vodka because it feels like a treat but doesn’t pack the caloric punch of a sugary drink.
Here’s a fancy video I made after my friends and I rented a cabin one weekend in April. To properly enjoy it, you should know the following:
We were quoting The Office the entire weekend in addition to a perennial favorite of ours, dropping non sequitur cliches into conversation.
On the way down, B coined the term “retro merge,” which is something along the lines of an untimely lane change.
Moxy drove her Jetta, lovingly nicknamed Gretta, separately. (Since our trip, poor Gretta was totaled in a tragic accident.)
On the way down near a casino, we saw a sign that read Hot Slot Action Ahead. You can imagine the giggling.
The local bar in the tiny town we visited is called Who Cares. The owner remembered us from our last visit more than a year ago and cited the hullabaloo that ensued when a goober cop gave me a ticket right outside the bar for not having signed my car’s registration.
B coined another term, “To the grave!” He was being sassy and I threatened to kick his arse when he brilliantly quipped, “I’m going to kick yours…TO THE GRAVE!!!”
And so I give you: Beer Me, Brookville!
*Sorry the link isn’t direct. That site is a perfect example of GUF, Gratuitous Use of Flash.
You know what nobody ever talks about? The fact that when you move into a residence that was previously occupied, if the painters are lazy sods, they paint over stray hairs in the bathroom. THAT’S RIGHT – stray hairs frozen in time, straggly monuments of poor hygiene paid forward to new residents. I know because I’ve seen them in every apartment I’ve ever lived in. I like to do an über cleaning to start things off on the right, erm, disinfected foot. Last night I finally got around to the bathroom, which I gave a sanitary what for. And I can attest that the indignity of dealing with those hairs and their off-the-charts gnarliness is far worse than the last indignity I can recall, having my butt cheeks spread during a skin cancer check. In fact, I would rather enjoy a prolonged cheek spreading if it meant I’d never again be on what a less-urbane blogger might call Pube Patrol.
Pardon me while I wash my hands in a solution of bleach and more bleach for the hundreth time.
Did y’all happen to see Glee last night? It’s a new show on Fox about a fledgling high school show choir and I triple-chocolate-dip LOVED it! A friend and I have a similar idea for a movie screenplay with a Christopher Guest feel, both of us having been unabashed choir geeks in high school. We’ve jotted down a few ideas but watching Glee made me want to get on the stick. It also made me realize that although writing is my passion, early on I somehow concluded I probably couldn’t make a living doing it. Isn’t that sad? I enjoy my Web work but it doesn’t make my skirt fly up in the way subway grates and writing do. I want to put more effort into my writing goals. I’d hate to turn 40 and realize I was so jaded, I didn’t even try. (You can watch the first episode of Glee online here. I thought it was very well written and it turns out the show’s creator is from Indy!)
In other news, my new mattress and box springs were recently delivered and they combined with my sassy bed set seal my status as a proper adult who makes discretionary purchases in lieu of, say, snatching a neighbor’s discarded ottoman and repurposing it as a kitchen sink/bidet. I slept on my mattress last night for the first time and it may seem like a simple pleasure but it felt luxurious and wonderful. The only downside is that the bed is too high for Abby to jump up on now that she’s a senior pup. (If I think about that for too long, I want to curl into the fetal position and bawl for 3 weeks straight.) I tried to help her up onto the bed but she just got nervous and jumpy. I finally gave up and she paced and chirped but still wouldn’t let me help her. Poor bippy. Luckily I’ve found the perfect solution, which isn’t exactly Jonathan Adler-chic but is utilitarian and easily folds flat for stashing under the bed. Next up, I’ll be working on a slew of DIY projects to complete my bedroom’s transformation from Grey Gardens to peaceful sanctuary. (Speaking of, did anyone see that HBO movie starring Drew Barrymore and Jessica Lange? I read about the story, which is peculiar and fascinating. I don’t have HBO and I’m sticking to lighthearted entertainment these days but I am curious to hear what people thought of the movie.)
I’ve been busier than a one-armed paper hanger this morning. While deftly juggling a stack of work and fending off the paparazzi, I still managed to find time to doodle during a snoozer of a phone call. I colored one of my prolific doodles using a pink pen, which I promptly misplaced. Instead of moving on to other tasks, I spent a half an hour looking for The Pink Doodle Pen. Meanwhile on my desk sat 10 or 20 other pens I could’ve used but NO, I had to locate the missing one. This little snap-shot of my life showcases one of my many neurosis. Obsess much? As my friend Patty from Mexico used to say, “I have the problems.”
In other news, I created a new playlist, chockablock full of booty-shakin’ goodness. Please click here to enjoy it (sorry, can’t embed.)
Moose’s recent post reminded me of the many expired items I discovered in the aftermath of my move. The kitchen and bathroom held untold treasures far past their prime. I found a can of tomato soup that expired in 2003. In case you’re not feeling terribly arithmetical, that’s six years. Six long years of storing an expired canned good. It’s an accomplishment of sorts but not one I imagine will find its way to the boastful inside cover of my first novel. That soup cast a suffocating pall on those 6 years and is likely the only thing I’ll remember about them. One day when my grandchildren ask me about the beginning of the new millennium, I’ll shake my cane at them and say, “You kids don’t know what it’s like to have to scrimp and save expired tomato soup in case of an apocalypse!”
Sadly, old soup was not the most egregious offender. That title was won by a sample of Excedrin that expired in 1997. This requires a bit of an explanation because I’m not directly to blame and anything I can do to shirk responsibility, you can bet I WILL DO. I found it in a first aid kit a friend made for me when I left to study in the Balkans in 2001. Obviously my friend had no idea she was giving me old meds but it makes fabulous blackmail fodder nonetheless.
The upside of all this unfortunate news is that I’ve been fearless in my purging (but loathe to forget how I regret giving my awesome plaid Vans to Goodwill.) I’ve gotten rid of a TON of stuff, the last of which was a haul of 90s-chic purses. It’s taking me awhile to get settled but at least I know my Neosporin isn’t likely to have morphed into some flesh-eating goo.
That said, there are still a few things I know better than to save but just can’t let go. Like my college notebooks. I’m especially sentimental about the ones from all my German classes. I really miss speaking and reading German and am ashamed at how much knowledge I’ve lost since I graduated. I’m hoping everything would come back relatively quickly if I was kidnapped and dropped in the middle of Bavaria. Somehow, keeping my ancient scrawlings makes me feel more prepared. I’m also not ready to trash the only tangible evidence of all my hard work especially since the only tangible evidence of any hard work since then is a can of expired tomato soup.
To my male readers: I’m about to blather about menses. I know, I know. I can imagine your withering glances but I am a woman after all and this being my blog, that makes it a Woman’s Blog. While I try to avoid topics that might alienate readers, there are times when a woman needs to share something so monumental, she has to ignore the estrogen-impaired of the bunch. So if talk of Aunt Flo gives you the heebie-jeebies, 1) Grow a pair and 2) Feel free to move along to other manly endeavors. As for the rest of us? Onward!
