Watching out for the faucet when I climb into bed

I write type this post because typing (usually) does not involve any muscles directly connected to my thighs and for the most part, I don't have to extend my arms too much, pulling on my arm pit muscles.
In recovery from this weekend, instead of icing my sorethings (by simply stepping outside) from the 2.5 mile cross country ski (hell yes) trek, I am sleeping in the bathtub. The reasoning for this is two fold:

1. With enough pillows and blankets, sleeping in the tub is very much like I remember the womb.
2. On the trip this weekend, The Future President of Africa and I were not jumping* on the bed and broke the frame. And not in the "give me a kitchen knife, chewed gum and six paper clips and this baby'll be back and running in eleven minutes" kind of broken. In the "Dude, the wood split. This shit is bro-kin" kind of way. You can't not jump in a bathtub and you certainly cannot break the frame.
   

Meanwhile, I'm also staying away from all ovens, particularly the broil feature because we also set nachos on fire at 5 am, set the fire alarm off and woke up half of the house. Sri was all, "It's fine, I have to get up now anyways." and Matt was a bundle of confusion;
"WHAT'S GOING ON?"
"Nothing, we burnt breakfast. It's all good now though."
"It's breakfast time?"
"Um. No."
"Oh."
"Go back to bed."
"Okay."
And this one? Well she slept right through it.

*Have you seen Harriet the Spy? You know, where she's jumping and then gets in trouble and then starts to not jump? It's crazy, bed-breaking fun. If your bed frame is made of porcelain or someone else pays for the repairs, you should go give it a try.

Add it to the list

My mother and I like to go places together. Especially if it involves my hair because she has great moral support and honest opinions regardless if I follow them.
Sometimes she hangs out in the waiting area reading outdated People magazines, but most of the time she wanders over to the chair to make sure I haven't started crying yet. When I'm having something spunky done at the Hair Police, she likes to start conversations with the people who left their (or any) natural hair color around the time they got their third non-ear piercing.

A snipit from last night between Mother and Lady McBlueHair:
McB: "Yeah, so I know this super hot girl who's like gorgeous and a model and has her own clothes line and whatever. And get this: she's a mechanic."
Mother: "Really?"
McB: "Yeah, she'll like call me and we'll talk about clothes and stuff and then I'll complain about a car problem and she'll be like, 'Yeah, it's your carbarator, bring it by my house and I'll fix it for you.' I think it's so hot."
Mother: "Yeah...that is hot."

She doesn't have a no-touch clause.

I received the best voice mail ever last night. It came from Whitney! who has been a vegetarian for a number of years I could guess but will likely embellish.

You have one unheard message. First unheard message sent yesterday at 11:58 pm.
"Hey. So you're either asleep or out partying [asleep] but if you get this message before, I don't know 2:00 am, I was wondering if you could call me and and tell me what a giblet is. Because I've been sitting here with my hand inside this thawed turkey for about a half an hour trying to figure out what I can pull out of it. Anyways, if you could give me a call, that'd be super. Bye!"

If you cannot see them for your self, here are the 3 best things about this voice mail:

1. Whitney!, alone in her house with her hand up a turkey's rump for a half an hour, with expectations to continue for the next two hours.
2. The complete nonchalance of giblet hunting at midnight.
3. I must know what a giblet is.

Plurals are just a suggestion

Ways to keep my piers in check:
1. Automatic foaming hand soap dispensers. You can hear these babies from a mile away.

Times I might prefer a literal slap in the face:
1. Dove Chocolate message: "Feel the promise of a warm day"

Ideas to present to the boss:
1. Pride coupons. You get two each winter and they excuse you from a day of work. Redeemable when your car stalls at Starbucks before dawn.

Recipe Thursdays

So by day I fill staplers and open other people's mail. And by night I go through boxes of things from my childhood. Except my night job pays in childhood memories, grammar errors and entertaining pictures. And award winning recipes from my kindergarten class where everyone submitted their favorite recipe for the class cookbook. Apparently I didn't eat much red meat then either:


Pot Roast

Ingredients:
chicken

1. Go shopping for all the ingredients
2. Cook the chicken on the stove for a half an hour.
3. Take it off the stove and cut it up into pieces.
4. Eat it.

I digress

"What do I need for Europe?"
"Umm...Not a shammy."
"Really? Vicki said we should all bring them."
"Do not bring one."
"Why?"
"I don't want to talk about it."

Also, this is definitely worth your time, $5 and lack of sleep. Leslie Ball has been putting on a weekly cabaret for 17 years and has titled it after her last name (This allows for much giggling which I would otherwise probably [not] be able to keep in if the show didn't start at midnight). You should go to it. And then act/sing/read dramatically/dance/juggle/juggle songbooks as you read them dramatically for the Balls (...) audience. See you there.

Concerns of personal hygiene

Nobody ever talks about Romania. So I think I should go and figure out what the story is. And you're invited.
Things Google has taught me in pre-trip internet education:

• Dracula
• Green. There is definitely green.
• EU: Coming soon to your local Romania.
• The dollar still sucks.
  
• Real estate gold mine
• Are you saying you don't want to see this in the flesh?
  
• We can stay here. They have beautiful laminate, an American-style kitchen and soap.
  

As he corrects himself on Britney lyrics

"What are you doing?"
"Blogging you."
"Me?!"
"Yes."
"I don't have a blog."

You're Indian anyways

“Let’s go camping!”
“You guys should come visit me and camp there.”
“Virginia? No way! They’ll kill me!”
“Dan, I live Lexington…it’s a population of about three.”
“Lexington?! I’m pretty sure that was one of the big…black…places for hating.”

I've got the spatula, but the prognosis is good.

If you:

• Are a visual learner
• Enjoy learning life lessons and laughing simultaneously
• Hate math and sometimes (always) internally (externally) over celebrate when a mathematical question comes easy to you.
  

You will enjoy this woman and her notecards.
They have the funny.

Change of address

I am writing to you from the tail end of the holiday-fun wrecker. The Stomach Flu.
He sought me out, swallowed me whole and held me hostage until he was sure that I watched Dick Clark stumble over his words and Carson trump his own assholeness while I noticed the ball dropping somewhere between two sips of ginger ale.
I just hope that saying about how you spend new years is a reflection of the rest of the year. Because I will be spending a lot of time on the bathroom floor with a down comforter in '08. You can fax me there.
But hey! I'm getting better! I switched from black yoga pants to gray yoga pants today!
Total sign of recuperation, right?

Resolution attempt: Use fewer commas. In writing, in life.