30 November 2009

She gets lost in this house like I get lost in my own tangents*

Oh hai there blog. Kinda forgot about you for a while didn't I? Even after I promised to fill you with photos of baking and cake and the post-baking trauma I always suffer through after looking at what my baking escapades do to the poor, innocent, once-spotless kitchen. And what's worse is that this post isn't even that one I promised! It is 100% cakeless! In fact, those photos aren't even uploaded to the computer yet. Good grief, what good am I? Are any of you still reading? I know you can't see it right now, but my head is hanging in shame. Promise.

But school, work, the holiday, laziness...blah, blah, blah. There are my excuses.

I hope you all had an excellent Thanksgiving, though. Mine was uneventful - a welcome break from last Christmas where my grandfather became paranoid that we all were ignoring him (hello! Get a hearing aid!) and became drunk with both a) anger and b) liquor (bet you didn't see that one coming) which resulted in him falling into the Christmas tree in front of the entire family, kids included. And then there was a spontaneous intervention which is a post unto itself even though I'll probably never write it because there are some stories that even I can't spin into a lighthearted-chucklefest (and this is the girl who finds it hilarious that I once tried to break my hand so I would have an excuse not to play clarinet anymore ha! aha! haha! ha? anyway...) - although (do you ever remember what I was talking about on the other side of that novel-length interpolation? I even had to go back to see where the hell I started this sentence) I was occasionally entertained by my perfectly lucid grandmother constantly getting lost and confused in our single-story 1200 sq. ft. house.

Granted, there isn't a single room in the house with 2 pairs of perfectly parallel walls, as you can see here in my (very rough, not at all to scale) layout I whipped up for you:


So sometimes the angles can throw you. To a point, that is. For instance, I can't tell you how many times my path from my computer desk to my bathroom looks like this:

In my defense, though, it's not due to any confusion as to where I am. It's just that once I get to the hallway I suddenly realize that I have to pee. So instead of three steps to the toilet, I end up taking thirty and I feel like an idiot for doing so (especially since it happens AT LEAST once a day), but think of all those extra calories I'm burning! Screw you, Jillian Michaels and your 30 Day Shred. I have my own fat-blasting routine, thankyouverymuch. It's called Having a Subtle Bladder.

(Subtitle: In a Bizarrely Laid-Out House)

Anyway, back to my grandma. Over the course of the two days she was here, I got to hear these gems:

1. (While in the living room) "This isn't the kitchen!"

2. (While heading to the kitchen) "Hold on, this isn't my room..." (She was staying in the Master)

And then see that blue line between the kitchen and the living room? That's some sort of indoor glassless window so you can watch TV while washing the dishes (what a world). At one point during my grandparents' visit as we were getting ready to go somewhere, my grandmother was standing on the living room side of that opening, and I was on the kitchen side, and she asked me if the backdoor was locked. I looked over her shoulder at the back door, saw that it was, and told her so, and then she replied, "How can you see it from there?"

I nodded towards it, "It's just right back there."

She smiled, thinking I was playing some sort of joke on her, "No-oooo, that's the back of the house!" referring to the wall behind me.

"No, that is."

"Don't tell me that's where we come in?" (She pointed behind me)

"Well, those are windows, but the front door is just over there." (I pointed in it's general direction, also behind me.)


"I swear! Do you want me to draw you a blueprint? It's really not that hard."

"Oh no, I like the surpise!"

Whatever works for you, Grandma. Whatever works for you.


*If I ever write a song, that will be a lyric.

19 November 2009

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 6)


I drink 64 ounces of water a day, every day, and I have for the past...oh, 4 years or so? And I know it's exactly 64 ounces because 1) I fill up one of my small collection of handy, cancer-ridden, hippy-looking 32-ounce Nalgene bottles two times a day and 2) I own a calculator. Of course, I can't just drink plain water - what am I, a caveman? - it's always water mixed with some sort of flavored powder full of cancer-ridden artificial sweeteners, but it helps me stay hydrated, and if there's one thing they (whoever they are) tell you about staying healthy it's to drink lots of water. They probably also say something about staying away from BPA and excessive amounts of aspertain, but good Lord, I can't follow all these rules at once! It's either keep my body juicy and moist with chemically-enhanced water that will probably turn my own cells against me one day in the form of a well-hydrated tumor, or drink plain water. Psh, what a no-brainer. Plain water is gross.

Anyway, I swear I'm going somewhere with this (only it's just a single sentence, and you're gonna be so underwhelmed when I get there). It's a routine, my water. There's morning water and afternoon water, and Lord help me on days when I finish morning water before 2:00pm. That's FAR too early for afternoon water, and how will that ever last me until bed time? I mean, Heaven forbid I exceed that magical number of 64. But whatever, I'm SO stuck in my routine, that I take my water with me wherever I go - even to restaurants where they will WILLINGLY give me water. For FREE even! Only in America. And I do occasionaly get some odd looks from waiters about having my own water, and every single time, I always think to myself, "I hope they think it's polyjuice potion."


A customer at work yesterday told her 3- and 2-year-old sons, "You are terrible children! I hate taking pictures with you!" And while it was TOTALLY TRUE - her children were horrible, and I equally hated taking their pictures - I was wise enough to keep that little tidbit of information tucked away inside my head for me and me alone to snuggle with. Plus, I didn't threaten the children with not receiving gum, money, and toys only to give them all to them anyway despite their awful, hell-spawn behavior. Now, I know I don't have any kids, but I DO own that cloth diaper, and I'm pretty sure that gives me enough child-rearing authority to say no wonder your kids are demons, ma'am. Have a nice day.


I'm making this for my mom's birthday this weekend:

And if it turns out good (well? I still don't know when to use which one, thank you public schooling), there will be a blog post allll about it next week.

And if it doesn't turn out well (good? I still don't know when to- oh wait, already did that), there will be an even funnier blog post allll about it next week, because that's what I do. I turn lemons into hysterical lemonade. Or mildy-humorous lemonade, anyway. Okay, fine, lemonade that typically causes people to glaze over by the 3rd paragraph. Whatever. I try.


Someone please, please, PLEASE find me the clip from last night's 30 Rock where...


...Teddy Ruxpin
is Kathy Geiss's lawyer.

>>>END SPOILER<<< style="text-align: center;">

Speaking of Things That Crack Me Up, read this post, specifically the answer to "Who is more stubborn?" Maybe no one will think it as funny as I do, but I lose it ever time I read that answer, probably because it is something I would totally do. I am a taurus after all.

Wow, an emotional eater and a stubborn bull. Is there anything about me that's not stereotypical? Aw, I feel so labeled and predictable now. :(


This is why I shouldn't be allowed to have peanut butter:

Do those look like knife tracks in there to you? That's because they're not. No, a knife has never seen the inside of a peanut butter jar in this house, because I'm too busy eating it straight out of the jar with my finger. Oh, I am a classy girl. And I'm just gonna warn you now, if you have peanut butter in your house, and you are not there to witness me, I will put my filthy finger in your PB jar too and NOT EVER SECOND GUESS THAT ACTION. It's a compulsion, I can't help it. I <3>


I hate ads, don't you? They're annoying and ugly and obvious attempt at a greedy profit. Ugh, they're the worst. Having said that, I have them. Just a friendly reminder that they're there. You know what to do.

Love ya. *wink*

18 November 2009

Will need to change header from "tens" to "dozens!"

I don't know what happened yesterday - I didn't update, I didn't go pimp plug myself a million different places, I didn't do ANYTHING to bring attention to this here blog, yet somehow this happened:

(The attention was obviously short-lived, unfortunately)

I'm not telling you my page view numbers specifically, mostly because I don't want to brag about how awesomely high my readership is embarrass myself with my five hits a day (four of which are probably me)(and oh wait, I just admitted it anyway, lookythere), but I'll tell you that I had a(n approximately)* 281.25% increase in hits from the average day. That's right - a TRIPLE DIGIT INCREASE. And no idea why. My blog hasn't had such a spike in views since that one time I posted on a somewhat popular political-ish blog a quick and innocent comment about my virginity. And how I still had it.

By the way, nice to meet you, New Reader(s). Sometimes I share fun tidbits about myself.

*It's like I went all E.E. Cummings there for a second.


Quick story about how my karma was all out of whack at work today: I somehow managed to hang up on THREE people (IN A ROW!), I took 15 pictures (out of the 30 picture limit we're supposed to stay under) before I realized I didn't have one of the lights/flash umbrella things on (you can tell by my use technical terms how well trained I am) and all of the pictures were ruined, and I told someone that her 13-month- old daughter was beautiful. Except her daughter had a penis.

He later peed on me in his naked shoot.


Skittles got her suchers taken out today, which was far worse on me than it was on her, what with having to hold her shaking-with-terror body down and look into those sad, puppy-dog eyes (literally, actually). I don't know if it actually hurt her or anything, but last time she was at the Vet, they took out some of her body parts and tucked other body parts back in then stuck her in a tiny cage all by her pathetic self, which I can only imagine was such a pleasant experience. But whatever, the REAL important part of the story here is that FINALLY, SKITTLES HAD A BATH. Praise the Lord, my dog is clean.

Taken post-bath, and isn't she so adorably pitiful? It's probably hard to tell with the picture being so blurry, but Imatellya it's harder than you think to take a picture with a right-handed camera in your left (and non-dominant!) hand while holding a small, shivering dog in your other.

(By the way, I feel like I've posted a lot of pictures of myself on here lately, so please let me say that it's not me being vain that I had to include me in the picture with my dog. I tried taking a picture of her after her bath, but this is how it turned out:

See her? DO YOU? That's because she's NOT THERE. Nope, when she's soaking wet and desperate to dry off, she's a regular speeding bullet, nothing but a blur as she runs from one room to another as though if only she could run fast enough, the water would eventually fall behind from, I dunno, exhaustion or poor diet or something. So by the time I press the button, she's already out of the frame. And that's why I hold her.)

Then there's this picture in which Skittles is the cutest sad thing I've ever seen (and her ears are HUGE! She looks like a chihuahua), but guuuuh who is that not-at-all-hot mess holding her? Blegh. I'm never gonna tilt my head into the 4th quadrant ever, EVER again. Too many chins, man. Too many chins. Looking down is so overrated anyway.

And because, you know, FEMALE INSECURITIES AND ALL, I'm not gonna end with that horrible picture of me. I just can't do it.

I'm gonna end with THIS horrible picture. Ha!

16 November 2009

Making do with the things you win

I don't know about any of you, but when a blog I read has a giveaway, I enter. Doesn't matter what it is, if all I have to do to enter is leave a comment at the end of the post, I go for it. A double broiler, cowboy boots, a trip to Santa Fe - yep, there's been some heart-breakers to see won by others, but what can you do? Well, you can enter them all and not discriminate the prizes - law of averages says you have to win something at SOME point, right?

And that's the story of how I won a cloth diaper and cover.

Which I now use all the time. On my many, many babies. That I totally have.

You have to admit, it is a fancy cloth diaper. It ain't your grandma's nappy, that's for sure. Seems cloth diapers went the way of the television and went from black and white (or okay, maybe just white) to color. COLOR! All this technology, it makes my head spin. I even got to pick out the colors I wanted for my prize, and one day my future child will have the cutest pooping repository in the world.

(At least for three hours or so. Then I'm screwed. I only have the one, see.)

Which begs the question, what do I do with it until then? It's too big for me, and anyway, I'm potty trained and have been for a long time. Must be going on a few years by now. I thought about putting it in my hope chest, but then I realized that I don't have a hope chest and now I have no idea where my dowry has gotten to! Probably the 1950s. But whatever, what's a girl to do with a pretty cloth diaper with no deliciously plump baby's bottom to stick in it?


...it makes a great helmet. Or it makes a helmet anyway. I don't know how "great" it would be at saving your head against being hit by anything harder than a sponge, but...uh, it's soft! Hard helmets always give me a headache, so ha! No more!

It makes a great bib. Now I don't know how much danger one is in of Chex Cereal staining their clothes, but it was the only foodstuffs in my room (those 10 steps to the kitchen are really too much to ask of me) other than cough drops, and it gets the point across. Note that this is also how I eat everything in real life - head first, no utensils, and with a deeply disturbing crazed look in my eyes. Don't ever touch my food. Ever.

(It's gonna take a special man to love me some day. Very special.)

Worried about the Swine Flu? So was I. You can see the panic it in my eyes (which is always there, but at this moment it was specific to the Swine Flu). But no more! Why use those scratchy, flimsy paper-thin hospital masks that barely hold back the sneeze of a single atom to protect your precious immune system when you can guard it with a multi-layered fortress of cozy, poop-resistant cloth? And don't feel self-conscious about how you might look. In the end, you'll be laughing all the way to the hospital, to where you'll be driving all your non-diaper-protected friends.

(At least, that's the kind of friend I am. I'd laugh. I'd laugh a lot.)

And finally, go bold and make a fashion statement with the diaper babushka! Keeps the hair out of your face, keeps your ear warm in winter, gives you a great conversation piece (or makes you a great conversation piece)...all kinds of good stuff. Be ahead of the trend for once!

By the way, this was supposed to be my "fierce" look, but, um, no. No, it's not. Not at all. I look more like a dying cancer patient. Guess who's never gonna be a model - THIS GIRL. Oh, woe is me.

Moral of the story? Never let the prize dissuade you from trying. There is always a use to be found for it.

14 November 2009

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 5)


I started typing this blog last night (you know, on FRIDAY, like I am supposed to do), but my very first topic ended up being far too long for a "quick take," which is why I decided to just finish writing it, save it for a future post, and try this post again tomorrow this morning.


You have NO IDEA how excited I am to be able to give my dog a bath Monday. Oh, I've been counting down the days since she came home from the vet's. She smells like death. Actually she smells like an anthropomorphic Death whose vagina recently fell out. And her hair is all sticky from where I've dropped ice cream on her. Twice. Okay, three times. Don't judge me. She looks like one of the dogs from those awful, awful, awful Sarah McClaucghkauchlaghcklin (that's how you spell it, right?) commercials. Skittles walks into a room, and suddenly "Arms of the Angels" starts playing in my head. It's incredibly pathetic.


I don't usually tell many people this, mostly because I don't want Dateline tracking me down to interview me and give me all sorts of fame and glory - blegh, who wants THAT - but I'm kind of psychic (emphasis on the "kind of.") It's a very specific and narrow field of psychic vision that I have, which is that I am often blessed with the foresight of what episode of a television show is going to come on. Oooo, eerie, yes, but don't freak out. I swear, I'm harmless. Now, it's not something I can do on command. You can't just ask me to predict an episode and expect me to do it (so a fat lot of good it'll do me at parties, psh). No, what happens is that out of the absolute blue, a random episode of some random TV show just pops into my head. There's no prompting involved, nothing around me ever reminds me of said TV show which then leads me to think of a particular episode. It's just like someone places the thought into my brain without even asking me (the NERVE), and within 24 hours, that episode will be on TV. I know, what a gift, right?! Totally going places with this one. I was merely a young lass of 4 when this first happened to me - I, er...um, "saw" a certain episode of "Sharon, Lois & Bram's Elephant Show" and wouldn' t you know, a few hours later there it was. Ta da! And it's been happening sporadically ever since. Doesn't even matter if the TV show is canceled, if it pops into my head, it'll be on. Guaranteed.



I don't have a number 4.


I leave for Disney in 66 days, and my goodness, the anticipation is going to be the end of me. Also, the end of my clean underwear.

During my first College Program (from now on - DCP), well, let's just say it didn't start out so great. I was initially put in the Magic Kingdom toll booth, and it was even more horrible than it sounds. First of all the toll booths are TWO MILES away from the actual park it self (a mile from the Ticket and Transportation Center and then a mile-ride on the monorail from there to the park). So I was working at Disney without actually being anywhere near Disney. Then, there was only one other CP (College Program-er) who really did not like me at all, and all the other people we worked with were old, retired men (not a single one of them was under the age of 60). Of course, I just stood by myself in a booth all day, and even our breaks were taken alone (and in a booth-sized room actually, which included the bathroom so the whole thing smelled like old man PISS), so it's not like I talked to any of them that much anyway. And then there was the exhaust fumes - my throat was on fire by the end of every shift. I fought tooth and nail to be transferred ANYWHERE, I genuinely didn't care where. I said I'd be a custodial worker just so long as I could be in the park. Eventually I did get transferred - to Splash Mountain no less, and I couldn't believe I was given such a fantastic position considering the fact that I said I'd take ANYTHING. Plus, out of 6000 CPs, over 100 requested to be transferred, and I was only one of THREE to be granted her request, so you better believe I praise God for my fortune every time I think about it, because the transfer literally made my DCP. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, because the remainder of my DCP was the most wonderful time of my life, and that would not have happened had I been stuck in the toll booth all those months.

So, you can imagine that I'm a bit nervous going back since we don't find our specific assignments until we get down there. I know I'm in Attractions, but that's it. At first, I was terrified that I might, again, be given a role that I don't like, and given the number of people who pulled strings for me to be transfered last time, it's not something I would attempt to do a second time. I wouldn't want to seem ungrateful for the opportunity, either. But then I thought about it some more and realized that there really are very few attractions I think I might not enjoy, but no matter what, I'd at least be in the parks. I'd be at Disney World. That was all I wanted when I wanted a transfer last time, and really, even if I were working, oh say, the Tea Cups, my "office" would be Fantasyland and think of how awesome my view of the fireworks would be every night. Granted, I really don't want to work anywhere in Fantasyland, I'd much rather be on Tower of Terror or Test Track or back on Splash Mountain, or even something smaller like The Living Seas with Nemo or Star Tours would be fine; but you know what? No matter what I get, it won't be the toll booth. That's the important thing. And even if I DO hate my job down there, I hate my job NOW, but at least then I'll be hating my job at Disney World where I can spend all my free time.

Doesn't stop me from praying about it every night (along with world peace and orphans and blah blah blah), but, well, I think I'll be okay. And I'm incredibly excited.


Anyone have any idea what happens to mail that you forget to put the apartment # on? It's been a week and a half and I've not gotten it Return-to-Sender'd, so I assume it either arrived or it's lost in the snail-mail-o-sphere somewhere.


Struggling to think of a 7th thing here, so I'm just going to link to my still-in-progress West Coast trip photo trip report over at Theme Park Review. I've only got the first 6 1/2 days so far (day 7 is half posted), but I'm trying to update it once a week till it's finished. So if you're a fan of roller coasters, theme parks, and my horrible writing, then you might find it entertaining.

12 November 2009

Time for a food post.

I love this woman. LOVE. HER. I want her house, her ranch, her husband (OH. EMM. GEE. I didn't know they made 'em so handsome), and - holy crap - her love story (minus the excessive sweat and weird skin breakout on her wedding day).

I also want every single one of her recipes, and lucky for me, she wants the whole world to have her recipes too.

That's how I came about the following recipe which has quickly become one of my favorite things to make for lunch. It's cheap, it's simple, it's super tasty and I could eat it every day. Sometimes I do. And best of all, it's a single-serving-friendly recipe, which is great for all the lonely souls like me out there! Hooray!

First, let's start with a potato:
Boil the potato in lightly-salted water 'until its "fork-tender" as the recipe says, but I'm gonna give you a little tip that I learned the hard way - it takes a LONG ASS TIME for a potato to boil to "fork-tender" point. Yeah. Did not know that. The first time I tried this recipe, I took the potato out after 15 minutes or so, tried smashing it with a glass (one of the next steps), and instead of gently collapsing underneath the pressure, it went flying across the room and hit the adjacent wall. Turns out it takes more along the lines of a half hour (at the very least) to get the potato soft enough. Who knew?

Next, while the potato is boiling, pour some olive oil onto a cookie sheet. Don't skimp on this step, lest the potato be forever stuck (and it will). And since this step doesn't take as long as it takes the potato to boil, spend the remaining 29 minutes and 55 seconds checking e-mail, spending time with your loved ones, curing the common cold...whatever you feel like. Make this recipe your own.

8 days later, after the potato has finally softened an adequate amount from all the boiling, place it on the cookie sheet and smash it with a potato masher. Or if you're a backwoods hillbilly like me who does not possess such a totally commonplace and necessary kitchen utensil such as the potato masher, the bottom of a glass seems to work just fine.

And now it looks like this.

Next, use a pastry brush to generously spread some more olive oil on the top.

Next, sprinkle some Kosher Salt on top. Not regular salt. Kosher salt. This is very important because I it is important that food be as ethnically and religiously as diverse as possible. Like our President. Also, because there is a difference in taste. TRUST ME. Do not, oh foolish mortal, use the unclean salt on thine here taters. (Well, that was a mish mosh of grammatical personalities, wasn't it?)

And don't skimp on the salt either. It really makes or breaks the potato.

Now, Ree's recipe calls for just salt and fresh ground pepper as far as I can remember, which I DID use, but whenever I see the words, "season with salt and pepper," my brain takes that as, "season to taste," and I throw whatever the hell else I feel like on it. Here I'm sprinkling some Oregano. By the way, shaking your one hand vigorously apparently causes your entire body to shake as well, as seen by the blurriness of the photo.

(Just checked the original recipe and I see that Ree also uses fresh chives. Not something I typically carry in the house, which is why I make up my own substitute. I'll have to try the chives thing sometime though, and I'll let you know how it goes)

Now, this particular time, I also used some sort of creole seasoning. I know - creole and oregano? REALLY, Natalie? But that's just how I am - I am a LOOSE CANON when it comes to herbs and spices. Take it or leave it. Normally for this recipe, I use some sort of steak seasoning that we have laying around, but the creole seasoning was just a culinary whim I decided to go with, and while it was still tasty, I do prefer it my "usual" way.

Next, bake on the top rack of a super-hot 450-degree oven for 20-25 minutes. Make the edges black and crispy because therein lies the flavor. Observe:

Oh yeah.

Now, Ree leaves it here. And I'm sure they're perfectly delectable just as is. But when have I EVER shied away from the option to use cheese and sour cream? NEVER. Never, ever, EVER.

Which is why my version always looks like this:

And there you have it. Great as a side, or if you eat like a bird (as I do), it's filling enough for a whole meal. Try it. Taste it. Love it.

The end.

09 November 2009

Maybe it will fall out while I'm wearing this skirt! How ironic would that be?

First, some warning. The skirt you are about to see is NOT as obnoxiously shiny and blue in real life as it appears in the photo. Thank you, crappy built-in flash.

Having said that:

Well, there it is. I like it, I think it's adorable. And I only broke TWO needles making it! Actually, I broke the very LAST two my mom had, which meant that I had to finish the zipper by hand. But turns out there's a special "foot" (some sewing term that might as well be "frunklezeitcherwich" because I have no idea what it means) just FOR sewing on zippers which 1) who knew? 2) would have been nice if I knew that to begin with because 3) it would have probably prevented the breakage of needle #2. Live and learn, folks. Live and learn.

It's not perfect, but I think I could wear it in public and not get laughed at, and that's always a refreshing change. I didn't use a pattern or anything (nor did I with my Halloween costume). I just sort of laid out a skirt I already had, pinned the fabric on it, cut along the pins, and prayed. That kind of thing would probably get frowned upon on Project Runway*, though, so let's just keep that between you and me. But, come on now, check out those belt loops. Be a little impressed here. I am.

*I actually had to look up the show to make sure it was in fact fashion-related and not some, oh I don't know, airport renovation show or something. It's sad how out of the loop I am.


One quick thing - given my dog's recent, um, illness, as well as the fact that this is a condition I have never heard before last week, I found it mildly disturbing that one of the blogs I read on a daily basis had a post today that linked to this.

So naturally I'm taking it as a sign from the universe warning me of the day when I wake up to find that my Very Special Place is no longer where it should be. And you better believe that day will be blogged about.

(Hahahahaha NO. No it won't.)

(Eh, maybe. We'll see.)

06 November 2009

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 4)


Remember how I said I thought I might be developing Restless Leg Syndrome? Because of how my legs had been all, you know, restless and whatnot at night for over a month before that? (And they were! I swear! My legs were DRIVING ME CRAZY with their restlessness!) Well, the very next night after I mentioned it on here, I never had another symptom again. Not during another single night. Completely cured. Apparently my powers of suggestion extend so far as to eliminate anything I might ever suggest I have. Which now leads me to say that I also believe myself to have the flu, typhoid fever, Parkinson's, every type of cancer, MS, infertility, gout, shingles, a severed arm, a tilted uterus, an allergy to werewolf bites, Alzheimer's, and also that pesky inability to fly.


I went to the store today to buy some ice cream (if there is no ice cream in the house, there might as well be no oxygen), but in making my way through the deli area whilst taking part in a few cheese samples (what I just said about ice cream? Same goes for cheese. Every bite of cheese is my favorite cheese), the man behind the counter let me know that all cheese was 25% today. He then proceeded to tell me that the individually wrapped cheeses (this was the fancy cheese department, not the lowly, poor man's Kraft cheese area, scoffs I) did not have the sale price on them since they didn't have time to go through and remark all the customized-by-weight price tags (which he said in the same please-forgive-me-I-beg-of-you tone he would use to tell me he had just ran over my cat), but that all I needed to do to determine the sale price was to subtract 25 cents per dollar that the cheese cost. Thank goodness men like him exist so that they may help all of us who never graduated 2nd grade mathematics.

Don't get me wrong, he was nice and all, but it scares me to think that we live in a world where adults need to be instructed how to calculate a quarter percentage off of $5.

But then I bought some nice pieces of Gruyere and Parmigiano Reggiano, and magically the fear melted away.


Now I'm going to take a break from my usual snarkiness and post this here youtube video that absolutely guts me every time.

Really, I should just embed this video 7 times and call it a day. It has far more value than anything else I have to say here.

Then again, you can just as easily press play 7 times in a row (or a million, like I have), in which case I still have four things to come up with.


At first I was starting to think that this Friday thing I do here is a bit silly given the fact that I've so far only managed to post one other entry a week, but then I realized that at least this MAKES me post something on a (somewhat) regular basis. And if it wasn't for 7QTF, you'd be stuck with just that one lonely post a week.

And don't say that'd be an improvement. Hmph.


I didn't take that daycare job at the church. Just couldn't do it. Not with me going to Disney next year. Also, because I wasn't offered the job. Ha! No, they gave it to someone - as I predicted - with actual teaching credentials, and honestly, I was a bit relieved. I didn't have to lie in Church about how yeah, I'm TOTALLY in for the long haul, when I'm actually leaving in two months. And I also didn't have to worry about the fact that they actually wanted me to come up with my own teaching regimen and run the class like an actual Pre-School (which is practically Kindergarten, which is practically middle school, which is practically college, and let's face it - do I seem like Professor material to you?) rather than a crappy daycare where parents don't care what the hell the kids learn/don't learn so long as they don't have to do anything as prosaic as raise their own kids, pish posh!

But I did get a (very) part-time nanny job for a woman with two young boys, and that's going well. It's still not quite enough hours for me to justify quitting my current job, but, eh, I figure I can tough it out for another month or so. I'll live.


I'm sewing another skirt! (Does that really call for the exclamation point, though? Eh, it's already there, so I'm gonna leave it.) Since my Halloween skirt turned out decently enough, I decided to make one without dozens of non-double-entendre balls hanging off of it. You know, a skirt I could wear in public without all the questions. It's blue and green and beautiful so far! I'll finish it tomorrow and post pictures...eventually.


Finally (thank GOD), I asked my mom about two weeks ago what she wants for her upcoming birthday, and she told me. And did I write it down? No, because I'm 24, which means I know everything and remember everything and am perfect in anyway and why on earth would I write something down when I only need to retain the information for 5 more weeks, and anyone who can't remember a gift idea for FIVE MEASLY WEEKS deserves to be shot. SHOT I SAY. From the toes all the way up to the head. Slowly. Very slowly.

Except I totally forgot what she wanted. I forgot I had even asked her until I asked again last night, and she reminded me that I asked and THAT SHE TOLD ME. I then tried to remember what in the world she said she wanted - I at least remembered it was a DVD of some musician, which only narrows it down to about a million possibilities. But we had watched the 30 Rock episode right before this conversation, and since Liza Minnelli had been mentioned in passing, she somehow got stuck in my head and was the only singer-ish person I could think of. Her and Mama Cass, though I can't really explain that one.

Neither of them were correct.

Anyway, if anyone has any idea what musician a soon-to-be 57 year old woman would want on DVD, please let me know. My mom never did remind me, the cagey wench.

Whom I love.


EDIT: WAIT, NO I'M 23! 23 years old! How the heck do I not even know my own age?! I genuinely have been living the past 10 minutes under the impression that I was 24 (perhaps longer if we assume take into account the thoughts of my subconscious). Ugh, I need a drink.

04 November 2009

The Chicken Little of Falling Uteruses

Wow, was it really just 4 days ago that I said I might make my own blog layout, and here I am ONLY ONE BLOG POST LATER and it's DONE?! Normally it's not my style to be so on top of things, but then again it's totally my style to distract myself from Very Important Things (like schoolwork, laundry, ending world hunger) with Not Quite As Important things (like a fancy photoshopped header), so I suppose in amazing myself by not procrastinating, I'm not amazing myself by procrastinating. What a swirling, tangled pretzel of cause and effect that is.

(It's not exactly perfect, this layout, but the imperfections are tiny and something I can live with for now, at least until I have some massive school project that needs immediate attention, in which case you better believe I'll be here tweaking away. By the way, that header is gorgeous, if I do say so myself. And I do. I say it myself, and I say it a lot. Gor-gee-US!)

(Annnnnd, looks like I'll have to add in a word about humility in tonight's prayers.)


Oh, how shall I put this story delicately...? Hmm. Well, this weekend, my dog's lady bits started falling out of her.

I'll give you a minute to let that sentence sink in.

That's right, her lady bits. Falling out. Of her body. I had no idea that could even happen - aren't things, like, attached? Sewn together, maybe? Superglued? I don't know how the good Lord assembled us, but apparently one day her girly parts de-chained themselves and started following the light at the end of the tunnel, if you get my drift. Then my mom had to go and tell me that it can happen in people too! PEOPLE! People like you and me! My vagina could fall out any minute! You might poop a fallopian tube next time you go to the bathroom! Makes you think twice about straining, doesn't it?


Skittles (our dog) had to go in for emergency surgery on Monday, but they might as well have been putting her to sleep for how awful I felt about it. She's a three pound dog who had never even seen the inside of a cage, let alone been forced to stay in one AWAY FROM HER FAMILY overnight and the most part of two days. We were able to take her home late Tuesday afternoon, but they were hesitant to let us because even though the surgery was successful and she didn't seem to be having any complications, they were worried about the fact that she wasn't eating (apparently they offered her every last meal and treat they had, and she wouldn't even sniff a single one of them). We then explained that our poor dog - our baby! - has such awful separation anxiety that she won't eat a single thing if we're not around. We could put an entire t-bone steak on the floor for her to enjoy while we're out of the house, but nope - she'd ignore it and go and lie down (and sob herself to sleep, I'm sure) on some article of clothing of mine I've got strewn about on the floor, just so she could smell me. It really is the most heartbreaking thing I've ever seen. So wouldn't you believe it, the second we get home and try to feed her a milkbone, she's running at it and swallowing it whole like she hasn't eaten in 36 hours. Because she hasn't.

(Pardon me while I break here to cry my guilty little eyes out)

Her stomach is all sliced and stitched and awful-looking, and she smells like vomit, but for the most part she seems normal. Then again, her "normal" has always consisted of sitting on my lap all day long and not moving until I move, so I guess the activity bar is set pretty low. Still, I've seen her jump and run a bit without problem, so I guess I'm more traumatized than she is.

Also, while my mom was getting ready for bed the other night, I heard a loud thump and her scream. I asked her if she was okay, and she just said, all morose-like, "You don't want to know." "Are you sure?" "You really don't want to know." Now this was the same day as Skittles' surgery, and so between having fallen body parts on the mind and being slightly hypochondriac, the only thing that I could think of that I wouldn't "want to know about" would be something that involves more chunks of body falling out of people. So after hearing a thump, a scream, and my mom telling me that I didn't want to know what just happened (and she was in the bathroom, so I couldn't see what was really going on) I - ever so logically - assumed that her uterus had just fallen out and was laying in a bloody puddle on the floor because that is TOTALLY A RATIONAL ASSUMPTION THAT ANY NORMAL BEING WOULD THINK OF, I KNOW. (PLUS! I had just watched another "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," and every time a woman goes to the bathroom on that show, a BABY falls out of the canal and into a toilet, so my mind was FIXED on body parts falling out of lady parts behind the closed door of a bathroom). Anyway, I urgently asked my mom if I needed to call 911, and she was all, "What? 911...?" And then she came out holding a can of bug spray. Ahh, never mind then - she had seen a cockroach. She didn't lose her uterus, it was COCKROACH. Well, I was close, right? Either way, turns out she was right, though. I really didn't want to know that, either.

Then - and I swear this is true, that I really am this thick - five minutes later, I finally remembered my mom had a hysterectomy 15 years ago. So...definitely no falling uterus from her.

Anyway, welcome back, Skittles. We missed you so much!

(P.S. If you like what you read here, or if you really, really don't but you have a very kind and charitable soul that helps you to see the very-hard-to-spot beauty in people like myself, there are ads on this blog. I'm not supposed to tell you what to do with them, but, well, sometimes when I visit a site I like, I click on stuff. Just once or twice. Nothing fancy. Just to support the cause, you see. I dunno, maybe it's just me. Anyway, I'm just saying that's what I do. You can do what you like. That's all. Love ya.)