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."

Assessing Our Options

Kelly, Taylor and I made a vow that if by the time we have to announce that our age is 38, none of us are married, we will move into a lovely house together and adopt animals and children.
Details are still being worked out, for instance whether or not we will follow Taylor's suggestion of an entirely pink house. Kelly countered with every room having its own theme. Taylor settled on her room having a pink theme. I told them that I don't care as long as there are no cats, I don't have to be responsible for fixing appliances, and we are within walking distance from caffeine.
Most importantly, we decided that in spirit of non-marriage, we will all change our last name and form the ultimate triumvirate: "O'Houlehotzke".

Choosing Joy

Few things give me greater joy than watching grown people walk around in footie pajamas.
And yes, art shaped like body parts and tormenting Small Terrier with Snausages are both part of that few.

Oh yes.
And pissing off the elderly by way of political T's. Again. Except this time with a more overt anti-war message. Possibly something like "No war in Iraq".
Take that Tapered Pants.

Labeled: "Explicit Lyrics. Or at least we think so, some of these words are pretty big."

The concert last night was so phenomenal, I chose not to shower the sweaty, nerdy essence off of my skin. Or the feeling of Colin Meloy walking directly by us when we were waiting to get inside.
Here is where we were supposed to say something trite like "I love you" or "Father my children" or "May I touch your pretty glasses or your nice sweater?" or really say anything at all.
What you are not supposed to do is let the very attractive lead singer of your all time favorite band walk by you within an arm's reach, and do nothing but let your jaw drop so far down that it scraps gum off of the Madison pavement.
Because the entire rest of the night you will struggle to kick yourself in stupidity.
But then Colin will come out for the encore, say, "Alright, fine, we've got one more for you guys" and right when you expect any of their amazing story songs, they break into their twenty minute ballad, "The Tain".
And all in the world is right again.

My Love For This Band Could Possibly Fill Up The Two Empty Seats

Armed with embroidery floss, The Time Traveler's Wife, tube socks, and Pirate Booty, the lovely Alexandra and I will be carting over to Madison to see The Decemberists, once again. And, for some unreasonable reason, all of our Decemberist-loving friends have prioritized athletics over songs about being so nonathletic that Chuck Taylor's are the only shoes they own with laces.

So we are left with two extra tickets and the image of us trying to scalp them should be entertainment enough. I'm wearing red, hoping that I can be shirt buddies with whoever is the opening act, and so that my best friend Lisa will see me and remember our lunch plans from the concert last November. Its cool, Lisa. I know you're busy, and I know in my heart of hearts that this is not a reflection of our friendship.

The American Dream Becomes Somewhat Subjective. Again.

No!
I swear it ain't so!
I swear that yesterday at work I did not participate in an employee joke!
I will not like my job!

Or at least I promise not to like my job as much as people who work at my previous wage-earning establishment (recounted here and here) hate theirs. My dear, dear cousin Dan worked there for about three years in my company, and, this past Saturday night lived the walking-out-on-the-job fantasy. Mind you that this is the cousin Dan who had such intense hyperactivity disorder when we were small, that on family vacations, we were only allowed watch 3 Ninjas one time.

The scene:
Busy Saturday night at the pizza place, appx. 6:30 pm.
Dan, alone on the sandwich bar, putting out an order about once every 20 minutes. Overwhelmed.

Takes tickets by fist-fulls, throws them about kitchen, throws apron to floor, runs into overflowing dining room.
Jumps on table, removes shirt.
Swings shirt about (see Tarzan if you're confused about this part)
People stare.
Shouts something along the lines of "I just want everybody here to know just how much I hate my job!"
Runs out.

What Would Freud Do?

The vivid dreams have continued all this week. They have included a heroin trip, Tess's benign brain tumor, and a reoccurring theme of white industrial rope.
The heroin one made me particularly terrified, especially when I got into work yesterday and one of my boss paged me in the shipping department from Tuscon on the PA system.
I plan on getting no dreams tonight because I am weak against the bribe of middle school girls when they asked me to help them with their 2nd annual all-night Pink Party.

And yes, you're right. The heroin dream has nothing to do with the PA system at my workplace.
I've found a particular lack of structure in my life this week, and you, my friend, have just been victim.

Blogger reccomends that I label this post "scooters". This post is not about scooters.

Things I've Thought Today:

1. How angry I am that I tried to remember so many things today that I forgot about all of them.
2. How uncomfortable it makes me feel to ask my boss for four consecutive weeks off of work without being fired.
3. How angry I am that the size of Flinstones vitamins have shrunk dramatically, I'd say at least by 30%.
4. How upsetting the dream I had last night was in which Sri dyed her hair a streaky red and I told her I liked it.
   
5. How jealous I am that Sri gets to go to Africa. Please don't dye your hair nasty, and follow all the other safety precautions as well.
   
6. How as long as the above are my most weighty issues, realistically, I should be fine.
7. How hard it is to be realistic.
   

Outline Format: For Non-Free Thinkers

After much consideration, I've decided that all of my Spring Break experiences can be classified under the following criteria:

1. Eating my body weight in:
1. Dunkin' Donuts
2. Pizza
3. Strawberry Lemonade
   
2. Minimal showering
3. Journey/Bon Jovi (Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to)
   
4. Hotel Beds
5. Gas
1. For cars
2. Otherwise
   
6. Uncontrollable cravings for bacon, which will be satisfied tomorrow morning.
   

Chapter Two

Today's Schedule:
7:45: Wake up, angry once again at psychological principals because you can't catch up on sleep, even when you spend 8 hours in a car the previous day, most of which at hours when you still apply for McDonald's breakfast.
8:30: Fine, I'll get out of bed.
8:31: Realize you're home alone and put on leggings, an oversized promotional Coca-Cola Classic shirt, a summer camp sweatshirt, and leprechaun slippers.
8:35: Separate laundry.
8:36: Read the label of the expensive jeans seven times, and agree to wash them because you've extended the courtesy NotWashingBecauseThey'reJeans period, possibly by several weeks.
8:37: Play with the laundry soap and spiny thing, then throw in clothes.
8:40-9:00: Think about pretending to be productive on the computer, settle on eating Frosted Flakes.
9:00-9:30: Make coffee, and then lose track of how many cups you've had and aimlessly wonder into the kitchen eight times only to find the pot empty. Shoot.
9:31: Play with calorie counter on Starbucks.com.
10:00: Dignity gone, perhaps go to library to scavenge for music.

Spring Break '07, Baby!

Wooo! SB 2K7!
It's gunna be cray-zay!
I'm going to the library to read baby name books because after the 3 hour mark of watching Six Feet Under, I need an emotional break, and somebody has to keep Tess from watching so many soap operas that reality and not reality begin to merge.
My week should be filled with similar plans. Like devoting at least six hours a day to coloring, labeling, finishing The Little Prince, and thinking about going for a run.

Except for tomorrow, when Girl and I leave for Chicago to test the terrain of the town we might live in next year (Did I tell you this? Surprise!) and to see a couple of my little cousins who are so undeniably adorable that our entire extended family excused it when one of them carried around a security clove of garlic for a month and a half.

Freedom, Basically

Did you know that their is a clause to our good ol' Declaration of Independence?
Yep, I know, my mind was blown away when I found out last night.
The founding fathers sat around, after a long hard day of killing the locals, and decided that cupcakes are a forbidden form of free speech.
Because when I wore this shirt yesterday, an oldish woman at church told me that it sent a "pretty strong message", and after I laughed it off under my discomfort, she looked me dead in the eye and said she thinks "we need to support our troops".
So I did what anybody would do and prayed for her soul to Jesus at mass that night.

They say God works in mysterious ways, and man, do I agree. Because after mass last night when I was spreading the liberal light of Jesus to a group of six eighth graders, we got locked in and had to climb out the second story window.
I'll just take that as a sign that it was okay to not vomit a political mess all over the zealous conservatives of the free land.

Recipe for a Muffin Family Dinner

2 cups olive oil
1 cup sexual slurs
1 bottle of Merlot
3 shakes of a lamb's tail
1.5 hours later than scheduled
2 last minute grocery trips
1 small terrier, preferably whiny and begging
A dash of salt and and empty pepper grinder for ambiance.

Mix until jostled and angry.
Serve at 65 degrees on a Sunday evening in March.


In other news, I tried a yam muffin today and was pleasantly surprised.

Staying Where the Clam Chowder is a Little Worse and O's Sound Like O's.

That's fine, Northeastern University. I don't want you either.

Popping Iron

I saved three lives again today.
I like to boast about things like this because I know that once, I could not do it. Sort of like the crow pose in yoga. Don't be fooled, I haven't gone all secretly physically active on you guys. This just happens to be some freak-of-nature thing I can do.
My iron was up to 42%. Was it because of the five iron supplement pills I took with my breakfast this morning? Perhaps.
I met 5:45 this morning and took it to breakfast at Perkins with me where I sat among the other regulars who know the waitresses by name and don't get menus because everybody knows they want the Tremendous Twelve at the early bird discount with a cup of coffee and extra crispy bacon. I've concluded that most of these regulars are either elderly, mob bosses, or on the school board.
Maybe all three.

When You Didn't Think Administrative Work Could Get Any More Boring...

As soon as you start to get an inkling that there's a scandalous office affair going on between Really Tall Tech Guy and Big-Hearted Mandarin Woman, you find out that they've been happily married for years.

Survivor: Office

For the first time ever, Survivor and The Office synergize. It's called real life, with less jungle, less Steve Carrell, and more packing peanuts. Because at my place of work, they recycle employees like Americans should newspapers or plastic bottles. We're left with a three employees which are not linked to the family-owned business by blood or vows. If I had three less toes, they would have fired as many people in the last two months as I have toes.
We've started to lose orders based on who is still there, and who is not. And it's very hard to blame someone who is currently unemployed. Nobody wants to make that call.
Angela? Oh, hi.
Yes, it is me from--
Oh. Yes. We really are sorry to not have you here anymore--
Yes, I suppose you're right.
Well, yes. I mean, don't take this whole thing as a judgement of your character or anything...
Yes, yes, I guess I do understand how all of this sounds.
But the reason I was calling was about this order, we just can't find it anywhere, and we thought that maybe--
Yes, I am serious. Why do you ask?
Hello?
Angela?

The What's What of Lukewarm Tuesday Evenings

What is it about cheese that instinctively makes me crave Diet Coke?
Who can say?
And what is it about springtime weather that makes me slip and fall?
Mud.
Last but not least, what is the cost of breaking out the non-pants before I've shaved the winter from my legs?
Dignity in the workplace.

Fewer Giraffes, Just as Epic

I did it.
I saw 300. I saw it despite my disappointment when every time I saw the previews on TV I thought it was called "Zoo".
I saw it despite my fear of violence and things that do not involve Hugh Grant. And I liked it.
I like the story where the little guys beat the odds, and do it with cases instead of six packs on their chests, shoe scrappers on their heads, and capes.
Always more capes, I say.
And also because they call it "crimson" instead of "red", fueling my undying love for descriptive colors.
The role of the Queen was fantastic, and you know what? It is more about the ILoveYou's and less about the city lines and water supply and death. We just needed another epic film to remind us of that.
So I'm just taking this opportunity to profess my love for you, InterWeb.
I love you. And I would take three hundred of my best men to fight for you in capes.

Shrt Pst. Because there simply isn't time for vowels.

I enjoy short posts. They are sweet, and to-the-point. I am one of thousands of people who enjoy my dose of daily Dooce, but I'm telling you, if you miss a day, you get behind fast. Real fast.
So, to make up for my more than a week's absence, I will share with you this:

There are two full body plastic skeletons in my anatomy classroom. I found out today that their names are Ram the Destroyer and Lunchbox.

Empire Waste Belts Give Girl Stomach Ache

Things that blew my mind today:

1. Finding out from someone that at one point, people in the shipping department of the office I work at had fun.
   
2. Having brother answer the phone "[Insert company title] This is Mike".* I feel like I should make an appointment.
   
3. "Everyone can find one [new Victoria's Secret bra] they like. Sexy, romantic, or glam. Satin, lace or embroidered!" -Karolina, Victoria's Secret Angel. Thank you, Karolina. Now I will take the free underware no purchase necessary coupon you mailed to my father's name and cash it in when at the same time, I will ask them to change the spelling of your name and that of your friend Izabel also.
   

*This is very much unlike the times that my dad answers the phone with the name of the funeral home he used to work at, or "Joe's bar, this is Joe."** when I call.
**My dad's name is not Joe.

What's This? A "Make Me Feel Uncomfortable! It's Easy!" Sign on My Back?

Have you ever met a laugher? One who laughs at social situations which do not have a laughing obligation tagged on to them? I feel like the laugher I know wouldn't even laugh at a fart joke, but cracks up every time she compliments my outfit or work ethic.
The real itchy-noggin comes in when I'm walking around the office with Stacey, the petite Mandarin woman who says "Thanks you" and "vroom vroom" for vacuum, Laugher starts up a conversation without even a smile. Of course then Stacey proceeds to list off all of the cleaning tasks she'll do while I vroom vroom, then she grabs my wrist and smiles as if to say "we're in this together, fellow woman in the real working world!" but she just can't get that out. And I bite my lip, and try to teach the Laugher a lesson.

Giraffes + Coffee = True Love?

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

(Via Sri)

Intoxicating

Cleaning your room is fun for several reasons:

1. You will, undoubtedly find 40+ bobby pins. And of course, you have recently invested in a 90 pack because you thought they were all gone into the abyss.
   
2. You can avoid the post-football season syndrome where Father resorts to flipping between Nascar and golf.
   
3. You may reminisce on the phase in which you labeled everything. Because damnit, if someone finds my hole-punch, they will call the phone number written on it.
   
4. If your room is especially dirty, you can think about the rhyme "baritone saxophone" for hours while listening to The Goo Goo Dolls.
   

Just Kidding About That Second Part

Nothing spells Valentines Day like walking into Starbucks at 8:30 in the evening while they're marking down pink mugs and heart-shaped chocolate.

Or accidentally clicking on the link for how to properly site sources in research analysis essays when you're trying to get to the blogs.

Unintentional Beauty

In a birthday card from niece Lauren, age three:

Cover: Something that resembles a worm covered in thorns, or a blob which was victim of a porcupine attack. Most likely a birthday cake.

Inside: She has her mother print her thoughts:
"I'm coming to see you. -Lauren"

I Would Like to Propose Something.

There is no cure for Blog Block like a two day public school strategic roadmap advisory task force meeting. I had to resist every temptation I had to wear a superheroesque uniform to adequately demonstrate how I felt about being part of a "Task Force". At each table of about seven people, there was a dish of chocolaty confections, at which each adult stared at tempting themselves while I happily ate my body weight in Dove hearts, as one needs a constant intake of sugar to withstand something that mindnumbingly boring.
Educators have a tendency to bring up only scholastic issues when put in great numbers in small confined spaces. They laugh at jokes about class size and the correlation between "life time education" and "E-85".
Oh. Haha.
How topical.
Vom.

It's sort of fascinating how a room of some forty adults during the lunch break is very much like eating in a high school cafeteria. Everybody wants to be at the table with the intellectual entertainers, while the opinionated borings eat alone, suffering the consequences of voicing their over-passionate opinions in previous discussions. By the time everyone is fooded, someone is bound to begin the Queen pound-pound-clap chant, and in all of the energized excitement, someone on the yearbook committee takes snapshots of moments nobody truly wants to remember.

Good Morning, Sunshine

It's fun when you're emailing at 6:50 in the morning and have a blank stare at the blaring screen when all of the sudden you look down and written on the corner of an overcrowded post-it is "dumbo pottysniffer".
Now that's a good morning for everybody.

Full Circle Day of Tears: Part III

Dear Muffin [Right Hand] Mitten,

Thank you for being warm and endearingly pilled and nappy.
Thank you letting Alex find you in his basement, all alone.
Thank you for returning yourself in the form of a wrapped present.
Thank you for not being lost in the abyss of the U of M parking ramp or recreational aquatic center.
Thank you for coming back to Lefty, who was widowed without your companionship.
Sorry you fell out of your safety that one night when we watched that one movie where I got the characters confused because there were so many affairs.

-Muffin Sr.

Farts, Etcetera

Vacations suck for several reasons. Mainly, because when you get back, you soon realize that it's not okay to interpretive dance "math book" or announce your farts. And instead of being near those who appreciate the dutch oven, you're surrounded by people who cannot appreciate that you like to be the one to flip the calendar page at the turn of a new month.

Ending in Tears: Day II

Is that a tear? Or just a bit of snowflake in my eye?
Both acceptable on your last early morning with first graders, when you walk the room (5 minutes late, as usual. Why show up on time now?) and a dozen seven year old boys are making you cards. Every one of them skipped up to me, handed them over, and then ran away and watched my reaction from a distance.
By the numbers:
3 with American flags
3 Snowmen
1 Pyramid
1 Barfing robot
1 Giant book on a rainbow road
1 Pool with me jumping in on one side and a squirrel on the other.
1 That just says "Josh"
And my favorite, not that a teacher should choose favorites, is one by the cutest child in 287.
This lovely card opens backwards, and there are six stars of David on the cover. The inside reads "it wuss the funist with you you are osom to: megan from: nicos"

And it was worth it to wake up at 6:30 every morning. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go sob awhile.

I Need an E-Shoulder to Catch My Real Tears. Seriously.

I didn't want to worry you before I had to, but it has come to this.
I've lost one of my muffin mittens.
Last seen sometime Saturdayish.
Very understanding friends and family have tried to help, and even went to Urban last night in search of new mittens. We came home with the cousin mittens which are brown and have pink felt bows.
Dumb bows.
If I left one of my children at the U of M campus, the solution would not be to adopt his cousins for $8, even if I could detach his bow face and sew on a muffin face.
Tears.
Sob.
Weep.

Entrepreneurial Spirits

McKaylah: [Age 6.5, Grand entrance, approx. 15 minutes tardy] "I have fabulous news everybody"
Everybody: [Composite Age 75] "What's that?"
McKaylah: "I'm getting starting a new job." Because man, my last job paid peanuts and the manager was a controlling poop-face. And I have to put tea on the table for 6 dolls.
Everybody: "?"
McKaylah: "I'm opening a restaurant. And a hair salon. And a music place. And I already have a band for the music place."
Mr. Super Teach: "Well when everything's ready, I'll have to come eat at your restaurant okay?"
McKaylah: "Yup, and y'know what? Customers don't even have to pay if they don't want to."
MST: "Well it's a good thing you're here in math to work on your numbers."
McKaylah: "YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO PAY!"
Muffin: "Hey McKaylah, if you have three restaurants and then open three more, how many do you have?"
McKaylah: "Six!"
Muffin: "Good! Okay and if you have six and I close down three, how many do you have now?"
McKaylah: "Why are you closing down my restaurants?"

Pumping Iron to Lift a 75 lb Machine and Plotting my Exit Strategy

I sacrificed Saturday morning yoga to go to work today. So instead of spending money for silence, cashed in on silence. I think that four hours in a printing room is quite like yoga, actually. Instead of flexibility, you're tested on how long you can stand without feeling dizzy and how long your patience with the automatic stapler/folder machine can be stretched before you reenact the scene from Office Space with the copier.

I'm Not Saying I'm Dying

I have a feeling, that if I were lying on my death bed, my new manager Paul and his ego would ask me to come in to pack diet pills and vacuum clean floors. Then, once I got there, I would make mental post-its of things to do as soon as I finished whatever I was doing. Like pick up packing peanut pieces (alliteration! yay!) as soon as I was done emptying empty trash cans and putting supplementary clean bags in them. Ego Paul would then rattle off a list of things I already know to do, delete my mental notes, save me no time to grab the real check list, later criticize me for not picking up the packing peanut pieces, and then lecture me on the importance of the check list.
Ego Paul, do you think I do not know the benefits of a checklist?
I know the benefits of a checklist.
I know.

Project Milk

• It is quaint to have your milk delivered every Monday morning: True.
• Every time I think about John, our former milk man who moved up to Corporate, I smile: True.
• Every time we get a note from Gary, the new milkman, just a novice in the world of dairy delivery, I think of his potential and smile as well: True.
• It is realistic for a three person household to have six gallons of milk in the house at one point in time, and expect it to not go to waste: False.

I'm working on a technology that allows me to pump milk through the monitor, into cyberspace, and straight to you, Mister Interweb Surfer, lest I first turn into a complete solid of 1000% bone density.

1st Day Back From Break Reveals Small Person Tendencies

"Every time I go in the bath, I pee." -Weston age thicks ana haf.

Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines in Pieces on the Ground

Things I'm sick of:

1. Not wanting to do laundry. I love laundry!
2. Dreaming about sleeping poorly.
3. Dreaming about waking up.
4. Trying to cut back on coffee. Maybe this has to do with the previous.
5. Winter. I long for the muggy, rainy aura of spring.
6. Having that one sad James Taylor song stuck in my head.

Fewer Fears in '07

Last year's resolution came out as successful as I think one can get in 365 days. I can produce sound, not a rich, song-like sound, but nonetheless, sound. If I could find the computer mic, I would record it to prove all you non-believers wrong.

This year?
Be less afraid.
And cross legs less.

It's a Recessive Trait

"Hey Meg, you know how you feel about velvet?"
"Yes."
"That's how I feel about polar fleece."
"Ew."
"Yeah. It's crawly-creepy."

Then Angelina and Brad Made Me Feel a Little Worse About Myself. Again.

Occasionally, between pieces of generally solid, reputable literature, I indulge myself in an issue of People. Usually they come in the form of a random gift. Get well, Happy Hump Day, Easter Basket, or Stocking Stuffer. The Best/Worst of 2006 issue came in the hat that doubled as a stocking this year as we didn't have time to frost the house with the usual tacky decorations. Or, you know, get a tree. People is the only magazine that I really, well, appreciate isn't the right word. I like the crossword puzzle, and plan on eventually moving up to the NY Times puzzle in my future, more intellectual days.
My question is how Pluto made the list of "Fired in '06" and Spinach made the "2006 Hall of Shame". The Hall of Shame had six things on it. People isn't so classy. You'd think they'd have more people and less vegetables.

Pseudo Sleep, Pseudo Trip, Pseudo Cure.

I'd like to thank the sponsor of last night's 11 most solid hours of sleep in my recent memory: Nyquil. And also the sponsor of the reason Nyquil neglected to actually cure the cold symptoms, and just flush me into a hallucinogenic sleep: Oregon. Pseudoephedrine is the working ingredient in Nyquil and other cold/flu remedy medicines, and as all you meth-addicts know, can be turned into methamphetamine and be smoked uuup. Because 85% of property crime in Oregon is commited by meth addicts, and the state alone represents not only the founding fathers of meth in the US, but remains the sole highest leader in users, pseudoephedrine is now banned in the majority of these products.

I prefer to not be carded when I buy Sudafed, because making sure I am a licenced 18 year old with itchy eyes, scratchy throat, runny nose, and a number of other symptoms seem to drastically change my attitude and therefore appearance. But hey.
My message to the, I'm sure huge, population of meth-user-blog-readers? Don't do meth, because when you wake up from a Nyquil sleep, you will feel just like you've awaken from a long, hard night.
And your nose will still run like Kenyans in the Olympics.

And She Rocked the Rental Shoes and 8 lb Ball

Bowling Champ
Originally uploaded by BananaLoaf.

Christmas was filled with family, singing, filler conversation, chocolate oranges and excitement followed by exhaustion. All of that sentimental crap*. Let's get down to the real stuff. The cousins that we bowl with every year on Christmas day found out about the blog in a lapse of judgement caused by exhaustion and tending to Father for 4 days in the hospital a few weeks back. Tired people do stupid things. Bill, if you're reading this, you're still King Pin in my book. Red team forever. Pound it.
Anyways, they had us for Christmas this year and got each family member a personalized bowling shirt, complete with nicknames like Twisted Sister (The bowler, not the 80s rock group. Disappointment, I know.) and Striker embroidered like real professionals.
Mine? Mine?
Banana Loaf.
I intended on a photo montage, but the digital cam went AWOL and so I spent a solid 1/2 an hour on this .bmp art. Beauty.
And yes, it does look as boxy on me as this paint masterpiece displays it.


*Filler conversation is absolutely sentimental crap.

Take THAT Rig Veda

I am not a competitive person.
I do not mind losing.
Somebody has to be the worst at everything, and I am the best worst at sports. This is okay. I played Thunder* the other day, and did not score a single basket. Not even one. I got out every time, and people simply shrugged, wondering why I was playing in the first place, and why I'm not morbidly obese due to such minimal physical activity. I enjoy a good walk, and now, yoga. I went to a "primary" course last night. Wouldn't you guess that primary would be the easiest? Oops. It's not. But hey. I'll learn the chants, find my Ujjayi breath, and maybe some day I'll be able to do a perpendicular headstand for 2 minutes like that one lady.
Point. Point. Searching for the poooinntt.
Oh, yes. My point is that usually, it's most natural for me to go back to the basics if I've over stepped my skill. Or better yet, pre-basics. But I plan on staying in this primary class. I will not reverse this. I made it through one class minimally returning to child's pose while those around me bent in ways I didn't think possible, and only sometimes mixed up my right and left appendages.
I will do physical activity.
And I will like it.

*Like Lightening in basketball, but you get back in.

I'm Dreaming of Diminishing Non-Renewable Resources...

Christmas is in X minus 7 days. 1 week away, people. And we have yet to see a 1/2 inch of white. I'd like to take this 45 degree Advent as an opportunity to address a very important issue. Why do I live in this freaking state? Oh yes, because when you exit the womb, they stamp your birth certificate, and hand you a less-known document stating that if you stay in Minnesota, you're guaranteed reduced reciprocity rates for going to Eau Claire for a post-secondary education, and you will experience four seasons every year. Travel Minnesota, folks.
Nobody should have to walk this limbo. Unless you are at a Hawaiian-themed party. Which might double as a Baby Jesus birthing party also. Is Al Gore a Christian? Or does he practice self-worship? Either way, he and his high-upper friends should write a sequel to An Inconvenient Truth detailing their plans to re-create the atmosphere of planet Earth. That would be a hit for everybody. Then they could tax us all, and print more money when they run out.
Debt!
Fun!

Gary Likes: The Zoo

Gary Likes: The Zoo
Originally uploaded by BananaLoaf.

Would you believe me if I told you that one of the 1st graders I work with drew this?

The first* documented episode of The Adventures of Gary the Gummy Bear uploaded here.

*See: Rough, Crappy, Blurry.

The Wiggles' Version of Octopus's Garden: Equally Disturbing

Mark (age 8): Who's Dave Matthew's Band?
Me: It's a band that I like a lot, I went to the concert a few months ago.
Mark: Oh. Like The Beatles?
Me: Um, well, sort of, but The Beatles are not The Beatles anymore...they're 50% dead.
Mark: Oh.
Amara (age 7): Ears perk the way a dog's do when you say the w-word. Did you say The Wiggles?!
Me: Oh, no The Beatles.
Amara: Disappointment, like when you were talking about w-o-k, not w-a-l-k. Oh. Well you know, the yellow Wiggle had to stop being a Wiggle.
Me: Oh, really?
Amara: Yep. He wasn't feeling good. He got sick.
Me: Huh. Interesting.
Amara: Satisfaction, pure satisfaction.

Hit or Miss

That Girl and I live by the same principal that you take in with you to TJ Maxx or Marshall's. Sometimes you find amazing shoes, sometimes you don't. Sometimes a creepy foreigner takes a picture up your skirt, sometimes you find great shoes. And sometimes you're funny, sometimes you collect awkward social situations like an elderly woman does cats.

TG: Oh Tim says that all the time.
Innocent Bystander: Who's Tim?
M: That's her pet name for me.
TG: Yep. And She calls me Richard Parker.

Insecure with a Swimming Unit in Gym Class

"In the eighth grade I was the only kid who wore her Halloween costume to the Halloween dance. "
"What'd you go as?"
"A spy."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, middle school is rough on everybody."

Hey, You!

People of the Interweb.
You seem to know things.
Why does brie have that totally nasty skin?

If you don't have the real answer, made up responses are welcome.
A prize to the one I like best.

F*$@ You Lucy, Bag and Bug Do Not Rhyme!

On a scale of 1 to 10, how appropriate is it to call 6 first graders playing rhyme bingo "The Rhymesayers"?

What about when one of them finds the word "fock" and asks if it's a word?

Building Buildings, Peeling Paper

We started to re-do the bathroom this summer. Or at I tore at a strip of wallpaper that was peeling. This was a lot more fun than I thought it would be, and led to naked walls.

Meanwhile, the Galleria started to build a parking ramp at about the same time I tore down the first wallpaper strip. I drove by the Galleria the other day, and people were parking in the 6 story garage while my bathroom walls are still bare.
Ouch.

Among Other Reasons Why We Did Not Form a Famly Band and Tour the Countryside

The thing about being 4th of 4 in the sibling line dance is that one stops getting particularly surprised. Except when, within a week, you discover that Brothers are both pregnant.
With commitment that is.
They have girlfriends which I don't really count as official until I've met them, and properly assessed who they are around their new counterparts. Thus far, I approve. They are both shy and brunette and both have the ability to make the brothers lose sight of what's really going on.
Oh.
And Sister is pregnant.
With child.
And another round of commitment, also I suppose.
She and I share the general fear of being outnumbered by children, for her it's her own kin, but I don't really hold that boundary.
I advised her that if she was going for three, it's ludicrous to stop there.
Because after all, the perfect child is child IV.

Leftovers

I have arrived home from The Family Muffin Giving Thanks Marathon '06. A three-day giving thanks extravaganza.
Thanks to the pilgrims, we are forced at least once a year, to gather with the people who we would love to strangle if given the chance to make it look like an accident.
But, alas, we go. Because there is food. And pie. And we sit around and poke a dead bird, cooking it for an hour for every four pounds (not the vice versa that I suggested at the feast), eat can-shaped berries, and in my case, are forced to eat a rutabaga to see if this is the year I will like them.
And I will not.

Cranking Up the Hearing Aids

There's an opening in our bridge club. I play with the gals on Tuesday nights at 3:30 before supper.
I also got my AARP card in the mail today right after I got the x-ray results which reveal that my hips aren't actually those of a 78 year old woman, but likely just feel like they are because I have bursitis. Which rarely occurs in people under 40 and is the result of high-risk activities such as raking, gardening, and carpentry.
After I set Dr. B straight, assuring him that I do not participate in any sports, that my gardening career has been cut off before it began, and don't jump, dance or generally activate myself often, he brushed it off as a form of arthritis, or inflammation of the bursa.
I'm thinking about asking for my own copies of the films to bring into Perkins to see if I qualify for the 55+ French Toast breakfast. "Here, look at my pelvis. See? Bursitis. I know, I know. I don't look 78, but believe me, I am totally deserving of the 3 slices at the reduced price. Hey. Would you talk to your grandmother that way?"

Bugger!

Remember when I got totally stoked about renting the entire first season of The Office?
And then when I accidentally rented the original, British version of the show, The Office?
And then how I punched my fist through the TV at the annoying accents and complete lack of Steve Carell?
Me too.

Okay, Seriously.

Or at least as serious as one, myself included, can get while blogging.
What do you say when this happens:

Boy 1: "Hey Ms. T...Is Santa real?"
Boy 2: "No, the real Santa is dead."
Girl: "Santa IS real!!"
6 big eyes stare at me in anticipation.

I search for non-religious-in-a-public-school answer.
Then walk away.

Bigger is Better

You Know That Sound That Scissors Make gets a face lift today.

Blogger in Beta and I have started to overcome our differences for the greater good. Or, the Blogger team fixed all the coding holes like not being able to comment on non-Beta blogs. Times are better now. And I wasted an hour of this morning playing with templates, fonts, and colors.

The conclusion:
1. Links which have already been clicked on will now be plum. Because plum is in.
2. Bigger fonts are better because (a) I don't have to wear the reading glasses to read posts. (b) When I post little posts, it looks like more.

I am a Writer, Writer of Facts

Texting Matt
Matt's Calling
Me: Hi...we're...(looks up)
Matt: She's on stage.
Me: She's on stage.
Matt: She's doing a jig.

I paid for a Decemberists concert ticket, but got an unexpected showing of the Superman underpants. Just kidding.
Colin was sick, but in both ways. In the "Colin was so sick last night, he ran off stage before everyone else probably to go throw up in the tour bus before coming back for the encore" way and also in the "Colin rocked so hard last night, it was sick" way.
Also, I made a new best friend and her name is Lisa and she's not actually in the Decemberists, but she can play more instruments than I have fingers and her hair is unbrushed and totally rock and roll and we're best friends.
She maybe just doesn't know it yet.

Ruining Childhoods, One Second Grader at a Time

Me: Oh is this your daughter?
Mrs. N: Yes. This is Emily. Say hi, Emily.
Emily N: Hi.
Me: Hi! I'm glad you're here today.
Emily N: Me too. I don't have success center at my school.
Me: Oh really?
Emily N:Yeah. I came here today just because, and because my mom's the teacher.
Me: Okay, well welcome.
Emily N: Thanks.
Me: So they don't have success center at her school?
Mrs. N: Nope, not until third grade.
Me: Right.
Mrs. N:Yeah, Emily's FOL so we'll be sending her next year.
Me: FOL?
Mrs. N:Foundations of Learning...She needs intervention.
Me: Ohh...(?)
Emily N: Wait, what? I'm going to success center next year?
Mrs. N:Uh....Yes honey.
Emily: WHAT?!
Me: Oh, sorry...
Mrs. N: No, it's just, she just, she struggles, Emily you struggle sometimes, and we work on it at home...
Emily N: I DON'T WANT TO GO!!!!!!!!
Mrs. N:Oh God. I'm sorry. Emily, its just. She just needs intervention.
Emily: AHHHHH! (Pouts in corner for next 60 minutes)
Me: I'm...sorry.
Mrs. N: No. Its just. She needs intervention with reading. Well it's a long explanation.

Shortly thereafter I told Emily she was adopted, that chocolate was a vegetable, and that Santa was a hoax. Then I killed My Little Pony.

Light at the End of the Blog Tunnel

Sometimes you feel like you've blogged all there is to blog.
And then something like this happens:

"I'm sorry guys, I don't speak Guatemalan."

The sun shown through.
And the Blogger formerly known as Lift_Her_Pull_Her blogs once again.

Nature and Nurture Come Together for the First Time

I'm in the market for a new hobby.
Because buying replacement parts for my phone on eBay is getting expensive, and I've simply run out of time to finish plotting the end of the world.
You know how it is.
I think I'll take up gardening. I understand that, depending on which way you look at it, I'm either six months early, or six months late with this, as carrots don't grow when their home is frozen. I don't blame them. I wouldn't either. But, my blood rushes at the thought of going to a gardening store (Do these exist? Must Google.) and getting my very own mini shovel (also Google: correct gardening equipment terms), veggie seeds, gloves and maybe even a gardening apron.
This brings me back to the childhood days when I used to take up sports and activities for the equipment they came with. (See: Swim caps, hockey gloves, volleyball knee pads, gymnastic leotards, and any sport that requires special shoes or equipment bags.)
I plan on growing various beginner veggies, because I don't really appreciate flowers, although they are aesthetically appealing to some, they are not food. At the end of the growing season, I'll make a dinner with the fruits (Veggies. Can I grow fruit? Google.) of my labor.
For you. You're invited.
Come at your own risk.

He Went to the Pumpkin Farm with Jesus

It's probably for the better that when I come home from a weekend away, my muffin pumpkin is gone.
True, I don't like Halloween.
True, I don't like squash or foods in the squash family.
True, I love the word squash, it may be playlist-worthy.
And true, I can imagine that this is how Senorita Cosita felt when she came home and it was like Freckles was never there. He's in a better place, my dear. He lived a long, 14 year, beagle life. Too soon? Apologies.

Coming From The Kid Who Made Her Dad Ring The Bell

Halloween sucks.

Normal kids can go out, knock on doors, retrieve various tooth decay, and go home dressed in a normal witch costume.

Minnesota kids are Eskimo Dorthy, Alaskan zombies, and pirates who sail the Arctic Sea. They're mittens can't grab candy from the basket, and their voices criticizing my muffin pumpkin are muffled by scarves and chattering teeth.
Opening and closing the door lets in a rush of frozen air that pisses me off as much as the doorbell angers the dog.
Except I don't bark.
Most of the time.

When I'm old and motherly, I feel like I still won't have the capacity to treat small, frozen, whiny children with the charm my mother does.
She:
Ring.
Knock.
"Hiiiii! Ohhhh what a scary witch! You look fantastic! Wow! Oh here, little scarecrow, I love you're hat..Have two Butterfingers! Alright! Everybody have some? Okay! Have a great night kids! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!"
I:
Ring.
Knock.
"Hi. Okay. There..One each. Now get your greasy mitts off of our property before I call the cops."

Success is Measured in Strong Platelettes

My purple stick-to-self tape is evidence of the iron supplement I took this morning.
I didn't anticipate that my iron would be up from its' last (and rejected) 37%, as I have not had any extra dead cows or leafy greens, and mentally prepared myself for failure once again.
Blood spun.
Iron was measured.
And 40% may as well be 100%.
And then I started to panic.
Blood Guy told me to settle down or my pulse would keep going up and he'd send me away.
Blood Guy sent me to Blood Gal. She told me to relax, that I'd be fine, and that my blood would enjoy its free joy ride on a teeter-totter. I told my legs and chin to cease the shaking because if they were going to send me away, they were going to send me away for a legitimate, chemical reason. Fear would not get me here.
Blood tubes on my right kept my gaze at lovely, calming, friendly faces. Marissa even documented my fright in photos- blood bag and all. All was wellish. Until I saw Senorita Cosita on a bed, covered in blankets. I squeezed harder to force blood into the tubes to go crack a Ron Burgandy joke to make all well in the world for SC.
My time: 5 Min. 2 Sec.
I stood.
I walked.
I comforted.
I buckled.
And we laid sipping Sprite from straws, knowing that for something to go smoothly and without black-outs, for us, is simply too much to ask.

This Is A Personal Attack At Beep

Things that will give me stress ulcers:

1. Recording voicemail greetings
1. The urgency of that woman
2. The beep-record-pound process. How am I to record a decent song such that I don't have to record my own voice when I'm worried about pound?
3. The 25 seconds of talk time my expired battery allots me.
   
2. Chocolate chips in ice cream.
   
3. Beta-blogger
4. Suitcases
5. Ebay
6. Posting codes that don't follow the proper outline format.

Early Childhood Lessons Teach Tough Love And The Real Meaning Behind Infinity

When little kids need a number line to do 1+3, it's because grasping that it's the same as 3+1 is just too hard.
And yes, 0+0 is much bigger than that. How do you explain to a 2-footer that it really is nothing+nothing?
A number line.
That's how.

"Free plus free is..fo? No. Let me see da white bode. Free...fo..five..six...seben..no. SIX! Six? Six!!" (Waves celebratory digits about)

"Okay. Watch me make da free"
"I'm watching"
"See? Make two bumps. Like dis."
"Oops, that's backwards, try again"
"Oh yeah. I knew dat. [Erasing] Dis eraser is sorta soapy."
"Soapy?"
"Yes. Dat's why it made that yellow line."
"Ohh.."
"Yeah. Okay I'm going to draw lollipops."
"Wait, what about the three?"
"Will you put me inside your coat?"
"Errrm..."
"You're my best friend."
"Do you want red stars for the ones you got right?"
"I love you."

Things That Suck No. 584

Whipping your hair stylishly around completely forgetting you have two semi-heavy glass beads stranded in, until one hits you on the bridge of your nose.

Twice.
In an hour.

My Chain Hangs Low Like The Floor Of The '84 Cutlass In Dusty Rose

Add this to the list of things that I will just never know:

Why GGMA-M's car had B96 as her preset #2.

This Is The Best Day Of My Life Because I Learned What Apostrophe Does

When second graders just don't feel like getting out of bed in the morning to play word finds and read "Iguana", they find means of cheering each other up. Mahkaylah struggled with the word "where" time and time again, while Amara just didn't want to roll the hard consonant dice. Deshawn had a gold-star attitude even after a dice-throwing casualty that landed "cl" right on his forehead. Of course, what better way to boost spirits than to serenade Amara with Dido.

"Amara, what's wrong? It's not so bad. Seriously. It's not so bad, it's not so baaaad. OhhhOHHOHHH It's not so baaad Amara!"

And you know what?
It wasn't so bad.

Things That Suck No. 253

Realizing you've been posting via the "Edit Html" tab and not the "Compose" tab for the last year. I guess I just thought indentation and lists were not really an option.

Lesson learned:
Ignorance is not bliss.
Ignorance keeps features from Muffin.

Because Mittens Don't Reach The Home Row

Its time to venture into the unknown world of functioning thermostats when you're typing with gloves on.

How To

Genuinely embarrass yourself:

Do a 2nd grade math problem wrong.

"6+3+5 isn't 15? Oh yeah. Well, I don't have that many fingers. What's that? Neither do you? Well my shoe size is older than you. Give me your lunch money."

Benny'd Be Proud

Real Catholics show up to mass 1/2 an hour late and leave early to avoid lines at the doughnut table.

I'm About To Have A [Panic Attack] If You Don't Give Me Some Personal Space.

Smells I smelled at the Atmosphere concert last night:
-Shaving Cream
-Tommy Hilfiger Cologne
-Corn Cob Litter. We used to put this in my rabbit's litter box. Memories of him are usually more nostalgic and don't make overpriced lemonade rise in my throat.
-B.O. Which I have gotten sort of attached to just calling "bo". I was unsure about this concert in the first place because I feel like everytime I go to concerts, they always play the songs I don't know, and then I'm only 1/2 the fan as the smelly guy next to me. With the catchy beats, the majority of the standing crowd audience had one or both of their arms in the air waving to the beat, and in all the arm-raising-beat-catching, it fanned all the bo directly outward. Before I knew it, it was like standing in a room filled with middle school kids.

Aside from slight claustrophobia invasions, stupid convenience charges*, and the unnecessary three opening acts, it was a success and I knew most of the songs.


*I would call it convenient if someone gave me 10 bucks for no reason too.

For The Commitment-Fearing, Celebration Is In Order

Happy Blogiversary, YKTSTSM.
For our first year, I wrote you an end rhyme poem.

We've outlasted any diary in which I wrote.
Perhaps on our fifth Blogiversary, we'll celebrate on a boat.
I wrote to you on a semi-daily basis,
Much more than anything in my past, at least in most cases.
So Happy Blogiversary, You Know That Sound That Scissors Make,
From my future, you shall not shake.

He Can Probably Fly Too.

There is no patience like a man who:
Is a kindergarten teacher.
Volunteers to help second grade math before school every morning.
Does bus duty after early morning math.
Runs the mile with his 4th graders.
Takes the 5th graders to overnight Spanish camp.
And has five boys at home.

I'm On Third

Chips: "These cookies are amazing"
Chunks: "Thanks..OH! I put chocolate chunks in them!"
Chips: "Oh, that's okay.."
Chunks: "Wait..do you..you don't like chunks? Are you chips? And I'm chunks?"
Chips: "I'm chips."
Chunks: "I'm chunks?"
Chips: "You're chunks."
Chunks: "Crap."

A Visual Representation Of Emotion. Or An Excuse To Use The Newly Discovered Calligraphy Tip On Paint.

"I Used To Pick Up Shifts As Santa During Christmastime Because Nobody Told Me Not To, And Because Nobody Checked My Background"

I attended a volunteer training for the Catholic church to remind us not to follow suit of our leaders who inappropriately touch young children. It consisted of two video segments with case studies and interviews with the victimized children, their families, and the pervs. To much dismay, the guy who's been luring kids since he was twelve, the girl who got touched by her priest, and the kid who used to go to his camp counselor's apartment every once in awhile, were all paid actors. I'm still slightly bitter as I and about 35 other volunteer trainees invested our emotions into their stories.
Apparently it was Sucker training also.
The video segments were intermissioned by the training representative who deals with said situations. He profiled himself as the text book child predator, being "large and bearded", exclaiming that he knows how to appropriately interact with children without making them or those around believe he is thinking otherwise. Those tall, bearded, or both in the audience were warned.

I learned several things at this particular session. 1) Don't touch kids. 2)Maturity level is not measured in years.

Reasons To Buy Second Hand

1. So that you can compromise your morals to buy velvet shoes
2. Shirts with Jello molds on them

That's all.

To Avoid Any Confusion, This Is The Refrigerator

Legit uses of the 24 pack of Sharpies:

1. Decorating the CDs which now back up my entire music collection and fitting artists to specific colors.
2. Making bubble map of the people I know, matching friends to specific colors.
3. Coming up with various different names for each color, and logging them.
4. Practicing adding a tail to my u's.
5. Experimenting different ways to write my "&" symbol.
6. Labeling things
7. Coloring, designing my new walls

Yougoogalee And Other Zoolander Tales

The other day, after we found out Great Grandma Marion had taken a right down a dead end after 92 years, I was volunteered to help write the eulogy to a woman I didn't know well beyond the elf soap and cat ornaments she'd given me for the past 17 years at Christmas time. I opted to hand over the privilege to motherdearest who grew up with her, and was bound to write a more heart-felt passage than one that uses expressions like "chillin' with J.C. in the clouds" as distraction slang from extreme discomfort.

Some things I learned about GGMA-M (It caught on at the end there...) that are not likely to be repeated in my own eulogy:
-She made Chex Mix years before they came out with it, and years before you could patent recipes. She called it "Party Mix".
-Marion never had a hair out of place.
-She kept everything. Including newspapers from almost everyday.
-She was stylish, sophisticated, and a fabulous cook.

I think I'd actually be fairly accurate in saying that they could 180 GGMA-M's life and call it mine. That'll save someone some time somewhere along the line.

Doctor's Orders

Cut tongue on a yogurt cup trying to lick the excess inside the yogurt cup lip.
Change the common slang of "F-Bomb" to "Effenheimer". Thanks for showing that one to the world, Poppa.
Catch up on this past Oscars' nominees:
-Brokeback Mountain:: I knew Heath Ledger was bound for greatness after 10 Things I Hate About You. I expected less sadness, but still, greatness.
-Capote::Amazing. Probably not designed to learn more about myself. Hm.
-Elizabethtown:: It's amazing that this can hold the same concept as one of my more favorite books (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Read it. Love it.) about finding more about your father because you didn't while he was alive, yet the cinema piece can be such an ENORMOUS LOAD OF CRAP! Shame on you Orlando and Kirsten. Shame on you both.
-The Producers:: Bueller...Bueller...

They Take Me Wisdom

That's right, I've traded all four pieces of my wisdom in exchange for twenty vicodin. I can no longer guide your lives or give out advice beyond this:
1. Ice is cold.
2. Blood tastes bad.
3. Two vicodin are better than one

Keeping Rosie Busy

Watching a mother give her child away to college is similar to what I imagine a very trusty robot malfunctioning as some cruel source sprays water on her mechanisms. The result is performing the everyday tasks over and over again.

Maybe I Had To Look Up The Planet List For This Post, Maybe I Didn't

What?! My world shakes! "Astrophysicists" should have a subtitle line on their business cards that reads "Childhood Killers" followed by a consolation hotline number when they do things like delete a planet. Pluto of all planets! That's the cute, small one! If they're going to get rid of a planet they should consider Mercury or Neptune. Nobody remembers Neptune. Maybe even take Uranus off the record.

Do you like that?
Uranus.
Like butt.
Butt's funny.

Discomfort, Defined.

Things that turn my comfort zone into a landing pad for the suck helicopter:

1. I survived camping enough to get in the car to go home and drop my lifeless phone into a cup of water. Turns out they don't warranty for clumsiness.
2. I got to the cabin just in time to babysit* a 3 year old cousin. To say the least, taking care of small children is not exactly* my forte, and falls just under my ability to tame elephants or time travel. I killed her sunfish that she caught and witnessed her first eulogy as she threw Sunfish back in the lake "so that for the bigger fish can eat him." She thanked him for being a good fish and for being our pet in the blue bucket which was left in the sun. Next to Wormy.
3. A man driving the Naked juice truck around town without his shirt on.
4. Getting pictures taken.
5. This post.


*Suggested words of spell check:
Babysit: Babysat, Pabst
Exaclty: ejaculate, ejaculates, ejaculated, ejaculating, ejaculation, ejaculations

[Insert Sentence Fragment Here]

Agreement in my personal dictionary of indecisiveness and fear is something followed loosely, providing me ample time to flake away from a decision or think through something I neglected earlier along the line.
Apparently, I "agreed" to go camping. This weekend. In the rain. In Ely where a town nearby suffered from 40 degree nights not so many nights ago. In August. The site is one which has slipped under the state park radar (translates: not an actual camp site) and has no "fire pit" or "open ground for tents". It's an island with no "bear control". And bears, apparently, can swim. Who knew? Not this one when she agreed.

When I freeze to death-
No.
When I get mauled by a bear-
No.
When my frozen carcass is eaten by Smoky the fire-preventing bear, please donate my remains to Body Worlds. At least when I go, I'll feel as though I'm part of some sort of elite club.

Major In Royalty, Minor in Communications

If all goes according to plan, and I eventually fulfill my obligation to the throne of Queen of the World, I will send an open letter to the world that goes a little something like this:

Dear People of the World,
Stop leaving.
It is no longer allowed here, as I, your queen, hate the good bye.
Thank you for your cooperation,
Queen Muffin

For Lack Of Blog-Worthy Experiences, Immaturities Exposed Here

"I wish we'd brought more dessert-like things"
"Oh we brought Poppycock."
"..."

"I'm Telling You She Doesn't Like Cantaloupe! If She Says She Does I'll Run Naked Around Your Property." -Uncle Mr. O

Walking into my humble home last night to find the frater playing with his new Magic Bullet to make "the greatest nectarine infused margarita ever" as he spills the Cuervo and asks what a nectarine is. In his 22nd year, this is a more acceptable behavior than what he got away with in high school, thanks to the traditional, Midwestern parenting skills where children abide by the legal system. My lack of posts has been the direct result of time spent at the internet-less cabin with cousins in town from Connecticut where rules aren't particularly rules until the cops come. Coming to the great land of Minny-sood-ah where they make up their own "You know you're in Minnesota when.." as the are directly affected and make up social security numbers to get their fishing licenses.
"Why are you bothering to get that kid a fishing license?"
"Because my kid drinks and smokes pot and if he's gunna go fishing, he's gunna catch a fuckin' legal fish."

Baby Book-Less AND Advice-Less! Youngest Child Treated Better Now Than Ever!

Funny* how one can come in third of the three waterskiing children for the duration of her three year waterskiing career. Also funny how she has received little advice from her bigger, better, balanced brothers as she has spent the last two years trying to successfully slalom without a faceplant-barrel roll combination.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting on my skis"
"They're on the wrong feet."
"Nuh-uh."
"Yup."
"No."
"You ski just like Steven and I and I'm telling you, you're supposed to be dropping your right ski."
"Fine. I try."

She skis. She drops. She slaloms. She flushes time down the pooper. Crap.



*See: not funny.

Why I've Started Carrying Around A Full Sized Notebook

"Dibs on the one [Olson twin] that doesn't have anorexia"
"Good. I like Mary Kate better anyways."
"Seriously?"
"Yes! She has problems. That's quirky. It makes her more real."
"..."
"She's like, 'I'm not above everyone. I do crack. And that's fine.'"
"..."
"The other one's boring!! No problems! That's not real!"
"Didn't she go to college?"
"Whatever."

Time Passes Here.

"Okay I have a confession to make. Sometimes I'm only funny so that I can be on your blog."
"I know."
"Crap."

And They Didn't Even Have Brakes

Roller blading is more fun when:
-You know where you are.
-It's not 10 pm.
-It's not a lightning storm with rain on the way.
-Your destination doesn't appear to be in some sort of alternate galaxy abyss not known to mankind.
-You don't break down on the phone with a very understanding, direction-wise friend.
-The mercury is not above the 100 degree level and you're only wearing jeans because you could only find wrist guards and not knee pads.
-By the time you get to where you're going you can't even eat the chocolate cake that just came out of the oven.