Small Terrier Strikes Again (Or reason #503945 why I shouldn't have dogs)

Tess thinks that all pets are like their humans.
And I didn't believe her until Tela was laying against my leg the other day and I went to pat her on the head like a normal dog-human relationship. She glared at me as if to say "Seriously? Did you just..? God." then stood up, and went to lay on the other couch. She spent the next few minutes killing me with her eyes for putting her 19-hours-a-day sleep schedule in jeopardy.
Wouldn't it be my luck that I get the only dog in the history of the world that doesn't like to be petted?

In Search of Horizontal Surfaces

In a post-Gatsby comatose, I ran away to the cabin for people and standing detox. The party was a grand success- a Grand Great Gatsby Gala success- if you will (there’s a little shout out to everyone who loves alliteration as much as I do). The only casualties were a mascara-cornea-jutting incident*, a small foot cut which I accept as it is due punishment for walking barefoot on mulch all night. But what can I say? Jordan Baker didn’t wear Tevas and neither will I.
And of course, the twenty-something bobby pins it took Alexandra and I to get that damned hat to stay on my head, which I’m confident would stay on for twelve cartwheels.

We cooked**, ate, celebrated, drank, Charelstoned (That’s right), admired Robert Redford, and when it got to be a little too much, sat by the lumineers and green light to listen to Tim Robbins read to us. By the end of the night there was carnage everywhere- pearls, duck wine foil, fringe from homemade dresses, golf hats and twelve different kinds of empty skewers.


*I can count the number of times I’ve worn mascara in the last six months on one hand, and I firmly believe that a video of me attempting this would get many hits on YouTube.
**Tess cooked, I opened containers but otherwise maintained a 2-3 foot radius from all food products and their associates at all times.

And Here You Thought I Was Being Sarcastic. Silly You.

This is mighty close to the 300th post, and after seriously considering naming collegiate bear Leonitis, I decided on Alan. Because last night on Friends, in a very typical Phoebe moment, she names a bear wind up toy to Alan. And if this were Toy Story, collegiate bear would have peeked out from the drawer in response to his name.
On another note, I'm actively trying to be positive about not living in Chicago next year. Who wants Dunkin' Donuts everyday anyways (Me. I do.) ? But can I just tell you something? Can I? Can I just tell you how much it blows that I'm missing this?

While I'm Here Losing Sleep

In parting ways with home in a couple weeks for my new adventure in St. Paul, I have devised a personal form of trickery to make the transition a bit easier. It mostly consists of a series of trial and error that fits a basic if-then format.
Examples:

1. If I buy a mini rice cooker, I can have warm soup and next year won't be so scary.
2. If I go to Build-A-Bear and make a new collegiate teddy, I will have a new friend and next year won't be so scary.
3. If I find the perfect tapestry for my wall, I will be surrounded by pretty things and next year won't be so scary.
   
4. Red. If I buy more red, next year can't possibly be so scary.
   

You can find me on the fourth floor next year. I'm the whack-o in red eating steamed food with a teddy bear who needs a name. Suggestions taken via comments and Morse code.

Will Blog From Safety

There's no time!
We're packing our bags and leaving behind whatever we can. Only what we can carry on our backs, Pop says. We'll leave food out for Small Terrier and come back for her in a few days. He said we can pick a temporary incognito name. I'm thinking Violet O'McDonald de Gretzky.
Because this household has gotten it's first warning for violating the sprinkler ordinance. We've been watering on an odd day as an even household.

Wear and Tear

You don't have to tell anybody around here about the magnitude of the 35W bridge. Asking someone in this neck of the woods how often they crossed the bridge that fell forty feet on Wednesday will yield similar results to asking them how many cups of coffee they've had that day, or how many times they've pooped in the last twenty four hours.
And if Anderson Cooper reports on it? It's a pretty big deal.
But leave it to Minnesota to have phone lines at every blood donation center tied up. Actually, to not be able to get phone calls through to the two area codes in the Twin Cities because the lines are tied up in effort to get a hold of friends and family. For locals to take their boats down the Mississippi with their friends with scuba gear to see if they can help.
Some call that human nature, but I live here so I call it Minnesota Nice.

If one in six hundred thousand bridges collapse every twenty years, and the one this decade hits quite close to home, I think it takes a pretty dimwitted government and transportation department to not test bridges that hundreds of thousands of people cross every day. And I don't doubt that they do test them. After all, only four states have higher quality bridges than ours. Unless, you know, within just over a month, the most widely used bridge in the state digressed forty five spots.

Snapple, Clogged Toilets, College Speak, and Those Cookies That are Already Soft.

I will hand out no remorse for the girls who spent this weekend laying on the dock without sunscreen. I can't understand how sun triggers endorphins, mostly because every time I have bare skin in plain sight of the rays, I imagine all my pores making sad faces.
The weekend was otherwise filled with eating, lounging, vocalizing the potential to do something other than eat and lounge, comedy, Imaginiff*, and what this particular group does best- talk. Most of the time conversation never aims at any particular goal, answer or conclusion but is somehow quite fulfilling. Especially when we all unintentionally bring the same three t shirts.

*This is a board game that Sister bought me that is a complete excuse to judge any eight people you know guilt free. She knows me well.

Something in the Water

This week is the week of madness, every year. Because Brother, Grandmother, Sadie (see a few posts below), Grandfather, Aunt and Mrs. That Girl all celebrate their birthdays.
Brother celebrated his twentieth year on Wednesday with plaid shorts, the new Harry Potter book, and tickets to the Kotton Mouth Kings concert at the Myth. Then I woke up from a terrible nightmare in which it was my birthday. Also, he bought himself a calendar to count down the days until his next birthday so he can, finally- at very long last- an entire lifetime's wait-only 363 days to go- ride in the passenger seat with a kid who has their learner's permit.
Yesss.

For the Good of Everyone

I know.
Don't worry, you don't have to explain to me. I know that you've been disciplined at work on numerous occasions for what appears to be wasting time, to unknowing eyes, of course. That sometimes, at meals you just stare at your plate of food, simply wondering. Answerless.
But do not fear.
There will be no more sleepless nights where you are just mulling, trying to figure out just how much time two twenty one year old boys can talk about cow farts.
I have the answer.
Twenty two minutes.
Go, enjoy your free, thoughtless time.

Because every Fine Point needs an Ultra Fine Point mate

It's that time of year again.
Almost better than Christmas.
But riddle me this:
Does Santa bring you the 24 pack of Sharpies for $10 from Target?

She Would Kill Me

Finally. Pictures of the new mini.
We have the whole big family here from the left; Lauren: the one you can't ask to repeat what she said because she may be to afraid, Mom: boo-boo fixer, Dad: the appliance fixer, Sadie: the proud owner of three newly vacant teeth spaces, and Charlie: the one trying to figure out why he spent so much time in such a small womb when he had this sweet gig to come out to.

Disciples and Daisy

It's fun to sneak into summer camp sometimes.
But why is that whenever I come home from any event, no matter how fun it was, my response about the hows of the trip is always "Fine."?
Perhaps this time it's because I am finding myself in a particularly responsible position of planning the birthday party of a friend. She is away learning Arabic with the future government secret agents of the world, as we plan a Great Gatsby gala to celebrate another year of Alexandra*. Responsibility bites, but in the name of flappers, bathtub whiskey and linen pants, I will address real live paper invites, learn how to make gazpacho and taste sparkling juices until my stomach could float away.

*She says she will go by this next year, so I'm giving it a test drive.

Things Realized Tonight; A Progressive Outline

1. If you stay inside long enough, people will start to bring you life lines.
   
1. See: Train CDs, foodstuffs, Gilmore Girls
1. If one could cash in the rental and late fees at the video store spent solely on season five, one could buy season five.
2. I've worn the same t-shirt a few days now and there is gum on my pants. I can tell you guilt and dignity-free that Train is one of the best bands that ever was.
   
2. Alphabetizing CDs is phenomenally therapeutic.
   
1. But seriously. Where do you put the mixes accumulated over the years?
   
2. Other things that are therapeutic:
1. Crocs. I did it. They are red and spongy and lovely.
   
1. And yes, it's okay that That Girl, fashionista extraordinaire, is a bit jealous.
   
2. Spending money. It's like crack, you do more so that you forget how bad it is that you're doing crack.
   

It's The American Way

When you open a credit card, you max it out the first day.
I did a little- okay a lot- of retail therapy for an especially bad two weeks. I found that a shiny new computer, iPod and printer (the printer was free, don't judge me (okay, fine, judge me)) will do just the trick to make you feel better.
I have divorced the PC ways. It's been a clean break, and as soon as I get custody of the email we'll be through. PC got custody of the iTunes library but it was sort of illegitimate so there's no hard feelings because it was backed up almost entirely on CDs- I knew that was a day well spent.
I've been courting a MacBook for a couple of months, and we eloped today. We are in the total honeymoon phase where every little thing it does is the cutest thing in the whole entire world. The kind of thing that makes everyone around you want to vom, but every time the little iTunes buddy bounces with a message, my heart melts a bit.

Flexing my Independent Muscles in the Free Land

5 Ways to Celebrate the Big 231:

1. Writing cards for the US. I think at 231, you're still not allowed to start the "Over the Hill" limericks, because in international retrospect, we should be losing our first tooth or using the toilet on a semi-regular basis.
2. Playing Apples to Apples. Because ex's make great "create your own" for adjectives like useless, desperate, and overly sensitive. Fruit is best served with a side of resentment.
   
3. Record how people verbally respond to fireworks and use it as your ring tone. Some good starting points: "Ohhh! WOW! OHMYGOSH WEEPING WILLOW! WEEPING WILLOW!!!!!"
4. Wrestle the brother that is 18 months and 100 pounds your senior in the mud at 3 am. Lose terribly, but then gloat about how Tess let you drive her fancy car and wouldn't let brother pry the key fob from her cold, dead hands.
   
5. Make key lime bars from a box, and tell people that they are homemade. Because really, what's more patriotic than lying?
   

Indulge

How to flood your synapses with endorphines:

1. The new Oreos that are dunking-shaped and a shot glass of milk just for proof. It took much to long for this invention, yes?
   
2. Here. Couldn't you just? Eeeee.
   

I, [Not] Robot

You know your job is a good one when you get yelled at for looking tired because it is unprofessional. Emotions have gone to the unprofessional category with jeans, Reefs and making jokes clients names. Like those sisters named Dorothy and Em.
Moral? I will still make fun of clients. I will still wear my Reefs on a daily basis. And I will still be tired. Because I am not a robot.

Like cradling a sack of sugar. For weight and deliciousness.

I know that everyone says the new baby that they've seen for the first time is the cutest baby they've ever seen, but I just want to make it clear that if there were a pita fold sandwich that had the itty-bittiest chin and nose of my brand spanking new nephew, Charlie, I would eat it.

And then I would not drive home with my mother who, bless her heart in her aging age is starting to leave her blinker on which fulfills one of my top pet peeves, just above paying for refills and people who major in communications.

Google research confirms that those orange things are, in fact, fish eggs. Ew?

Things I thought during the Post-Sushi Hunger*:

1. Do I enjoy the musical entertainment of the Polyphonic Spree to go see them in their robes at the Fine Line next month?
2. If I do enjoy them enough to go see them in robes, am I risking my sanity in the name of a band that has denied accusations of being a cult?
3. Yes, I do understand that at a cult's hang out place, their napkins say "we are not a cult".
4. Is it possible to sweat one's own body weight?
5. How many layers of skin can I peel away from my hairline and knee pits before pure muscle is exposed?
6. On a scale of 1 to 10, how annoying is OAR?
   

*Post-Sushi Hunger: That moment approx. 2-3 hours after you've eaten sushi, when the content feeling of being comfortably full of nutritional goodness wears off and you are overtaken with intense hunger that usually results in hamburgers and fried food.

Only when I have been brainwashed by a thirty seven hour bus ride will I partake in sing-a-longs

It is 8:46 pm just now, which is approximately nine hours and forty six minutes later than we have gotten home from Juarez in previous years. Our across-the-nation driving adventure was bound for doom from the moment we woke up an hour earlier than need be yesterday morning, followed by many things that eventually led to a moment of weakness in which I let someone draw large polka dots on my face.

Some factors:

• A bus driver who chose to relieve himself (numero dos, people) ten minutes after a rest stop in the bathroom that he lectured was only for emergencies. Plus, he wouldn't own up to it and claimed that he was only making phone calls
• The other bus driver who accused us of being racist
• Intense heat->overheating->(4) twenty minute stops sans AC and windows
• Eating lunch and then passing place of lunch one hour later
• Late night storm->fogged windows->long periods of no AC or windows->missed turn->20 minute detour
• Insanity that set in at approximately 11 pm which led to emotional breakdowns in the forms of crying, yelling, laughing, eating, and vom
• Double dose of sleeping pills->sleeping in a sitting position->double vision, kankles

It was an otherwise successful trip. Kids are still cute and in dire need, one in particular named Alan (pronunciation: Ah-Lon) who I met four years ago is now eight and doing well. I came home with new punk-rock bangs, the artistic scissor workings of Sri, stylist at large who now has me thinking about a pixie haircut.
Of course before I make any brash decisions about my appearance I vow to:

1. Shower.
2. Sleep.
3. Google research.
   

Because it takes us as long to get through Texas as it does the rest of the country

To cap off the fourth week of busy, I'm headed off to Mexico in the wee hours tomorrow. I'm over the bulk of the packing anxiety; it tends to get less stressful if I've been on a trip before, and I've really gotten the hang of cross-referencing packing lists. I'm considering it as a field of study when my plans as a professional mermaid fall through, and just after I pursue my aspiration of becoming a full-time daydreamer.
I am guaranteeing no internet access, and am also guaranteeing that I will still not have learned how to spell the word "guarantee" before I get back. Big ups to the new Firefox for auto spell check.
Have a pleasant week, interwebs. Make good choices and pray for my sanity on the cumulative 60 hour bus ride.

Things to be Thankful For

1. That this happened today and not one week ago when we were right in it's paths
1. That they don't think there were any casualties
2. That it didn't hit Coban, where they can't handle this sort of damage
2. For not falling on stage last night, which is saying very little when that one kid did a backflip and didn't fall
3. For the quick wit of sisters- Something involving a certain boyfriend resembling a certain brother, responded with something about one of us gaining a substantial amount of weight
4. For Xanax during times of large party planning

Foot in Mouth. Or Something to the Likes.

I've made an ass of myself.
Again.
I walked into a the party of someone that was not the Mr. Fix-It, cute-haired, glasses-wearing, trumpet player that I thought it was. And not even the kind where you open the door, don't recognize the furniture, and subtly walk out. The kind where you walk in, talk to some people, scope out the food array, grab a Diet Coke and talk to the mom before you realize.

Tomorrow, I walk and will try and take part in not-falling and enjoying the forced lifetime moment celebration. And Sister will come. Ripe and armed with butter knives to stab anyone who crosses her 9-month preggo path.

The Guat: By the Numbers

(.6) Hours of sleep the last night.
(3) Times we almost died
(24) Hours driving in vehicles without seat belts
(0) Hours driving in vehicles with seat belts
(2) Times I experienced a natural marvel because of eustress
(1) Piece of volcanic rock stuck in my finger
(9) Toe nails that Matt still has
(1) Radio show to prove our journey
(1) Diploma

Damnit.

Things just now realized:

1. The coffee we pounded at the monastery all week long was decaf.
   

Nothing else really matters.

Love from Antigua.

Blessings to be Counted

Still in Coban, experiencing extreme ends of the spectrum of life. (For lovely pictures see here)
For instance, the tour of the local coffee plantation yesterday, we smelled one of the best smells (freshly picked, washed, selected and toasted Guatemalan coffee beans) and saw a beautiful tree (avocado tree: surprisingly ginormous and cauliflower-like).
And today, we saw the absolute worst living situation I've ever seen or heard of. The people in this mountain crevasse which is the district garbage dump live off of the findings in the massive waste land. Food, clothes, housing materials, and the glass bottles they are sometimes lucky enough to scavenge for change. The families in this community sometimes hit bouts of such extreme poverty that they resort to selling one of their children to human traffickers for adoption or in the worst situations, organs on the black market.
I've found that most other parts that we have visited have been at least filled with some optimism about their situation- motivated to start a business, send their children to school, or join a church.
This "Basura" community is devastatingly far beyond that.
Simply, beyond hope.

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."

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.