Some Might Say

We've survived our first night of Guatelamali (as per Momma Muffin's pronunciation).
Things we've done that have been sponsored by medication:

1. Wake up at 2:45 am
   
2. Fly
3. Fly
4. Forget library book on plane.
1. Shoot.
5. Drive.
   
1. Here, we realized that the exchange rate for Queztales is 7.70 to the dollar, and the exchange rate for time is approximately two Guatemalan hours to every American hour. So when they say "three hour bus ride" they really mean "six to seven hour bus ride". And when they say "45 minutes car ride" really they mean "two hours in a pick up bed with a cover which funnels exhaust fumes directly into your lungs".
6. Eat beans and rice in many delicious, delicious forms.
   

Abusing the internet privileges,

-Muffin

Armed with Pills. Lots and Lots of Pills.

Sometimes, when I travel, I get anxious. Real anxious.
I begin to pack things I do not need, and forget things I do. (Recounted here)
I am leaving for Guatemala in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, and Sri has taken me under her big cozy wing and made me packing lists, doctors appointments, and lent me smart traveler's things. Mostly because I've been too busy having scary dreams, cracking my knuckles in my sleep and getting pre-travel stomach and head aches.
I told the nice, big-haired doctor that I did not want diarrhea, typhoid fever, or anxiety attacks to cloud my fun, and I would be lying if I told you that my left arm was totally fine and not at all sore from the shots. And that Taylor did not have to open the Blockbuster door for me so that we could watch Remember the Titans on a Friday night to help me calm down and think about the bigger issues.

May Flowers

It is not everyday that:

1. You sneak out the back door to avoid the neighborhood block party.
   
2. Tess gets to cook with Wolfgang Puck*.
   
3. My manager tries on Nice for a size, because apparently Icy Bitch got boring, or is not fashion-forward for springtime.
   

*Much cooler than those times she met Justin Timberlake, Ashlee Simpson and Barack Obama.

A Bit of Monday Sentiment

Every once in awhile, someone dies that you wish you'd gotten the chance to know better. The kind of person who wanted you to succeed in the things you loved. The kind of person who writes plays in French during her last weeks of life. The kind of person who sends you the entire series of Anne of the Green Gables in a beautiful hard cover set when you told her that you like to read. The kind of person who studies Irish and flies her friends to the UK and tells them she won a trip when really she just wants their company on her hunt for international literature. And the kind of person who marries a writer named Stuart and lives in the Connecticut countryside.

I hope I get to meet more people like Sheila in my time.

Oscar

At our home, we have many trash cans to completely minimize the distance needed to walk to dispose of anything. This is mainly to ensure that we don't miss any commercials and maintain our nonathletic physique, we're not ready to surprise the world just yet.
Growing up we always had this nasty trash can that one of my brothers told me was pink at one time. Recently, it got replaced with a mysterious blue trash can that you step on to open the top. I would have made a bigger deal about the sentiment I held towards the pink one, but this new one seems to trap the demonic scents of waste within itself, while before they were looming about for everyone to smell.
But today, I stepped on the step to throw away my yogurt cup, and I cannot explain to you the smell that escaped from the mouth of the receptacle. Rotting provolone? No. Phantom litter box of Fuzz, my childhood pet rabbit? No. Rotting remains of something that once walked the earth? Perhaps.
So, my point, you ask? Where is the line of sanity between instant, hell-born stink for only a moment, and looming stale garbage air that you have to breath on a day-to-day? And who can I pay in yogurt to come empty my trash can?

Muse Me

Ways to inspire me in a bout of uninspired boredom:

1. Name two of your children "Dorthy" and "Glenda" and have them both register at my place of work.
   
2. Create a new feature on the database which allows you to see cumulative lifetime spending at my place of work and then spend $69,000 on vitamins for me to judge.
   
3. Beat the Kinko's system and send your color copies to work with Pop where he can work his free copy machine magic.
   
4. Revisit life before online picture storage and celebrate all the money you wasted on developing pictures of people in mid-sneeze, not smiling, are stuck on the "ch" of cheese, or are just straight up blurry. That's right. Straight up.
   

Karma Chameleon

I am telling you right now, people, that there is actually only one way to skin a cat.
Do not ask me how I know this, because if you do, I will be obligated to tell you that I dissected a pregnant house cat today, which we named Boy George for desensitizing effects.
There were many times when I got to say "Scalpel" and someone handed me a scalpel. And perhaps a time or two when That Girl and I played Name That Tune on the femoral artery.

Cross-Shaped Breakouts and Other Religious Hangovers

I spent last night grabbing Anna by the shoulder, and wiping the chrism off of her face when Archbishop Flynn sealed her with the sacrament. I resisted every temptation to break into song when we stepped to the right, because we sat in the front row where Jesus can see you in plain sight. We celebrated with tapas and churros and for just one night, Kelly and I were a part of a family filled with so much love, it's intoxicating.

But that's okay, my family is great too. Because when I got home last night, there was a note on the keyboard from Pop telling me of the spare ribs he cooked for dinner by himself.
Two things are great about this:

1. That he knew I could not ignore a note that may as well directly block me from oxygen.
2. The note offered spare ribs at 10:30 at night.
   

Coping Mechanism: Hate Mail

Dear Grey's Anatomy-

Your story lines have gotten drier than a bowl of shredded wheat sans milk.
Tonight's two hour "event" was an event which I spent the entire time wishing that I had showered and that had better things to do than argue with Small Terrier about space on the couch.
You SUCK.

Get a life,

-Planet Earth

The first are the words of my mother, the second voiced at a church group. Among other reasons I don't want children.

"I found some Pogs the other day...are they still popular?"

"I have a Crock Pot we can use!"
"I think I could get us some drugs.."
"I don't know anything."