On Saturday Y and I went to Target in the afternoon. It was there that I heard the best accidental public outing of a family member by a child...ever.
A woman was walking down a main aisle with a little girl about 8-years-old. This is what I overheard:
Girl: "It's fun to come here and look at toys with your kids, isn't it?"
Woman: "I don't have any kids of my own, though."
Girl: "NA UH! You will!"
Woman: "When do you think I'll have kids of my own?"
Girl: "WHEN YOU AND AUNT KELLY GET MARRIED!"
Ahhhhh perrrrfect. Well done, little one. The case against spawning strengthens.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Wedding: Part II--Thank GoDDDD for Pastor Chet
So the wedding took place in Cumming (I swear), Iowa, a town famous for a website called (again, I swear) ilovecumming.com and "I Love Cumming" t-shirts. Don't worry, the t-shirt as a tiny little "IA" (for Iowa, of course) in a little green shamrock at the edge of the wording so the wearer can say "you PERVERT!" to anyone who makes the gross miscalculation in assuming the t-shirt is an invitation for anything sordid. I'd be a liar if I said we didn't go to the Cumming Tap and buy one for each of us, but don't worry. They're "in the house" shirts only.
Y and I made our way to the ceremony site for the rehearsal dinner on Friday, and it was here that we get to meet Pastor Chet for the first time. Let me say before I get started here that Pastor Chet is delightfully insane and I have no idea where Kathy and Eric found him, but I am so glad they did. Pastor Chet was a small, middle-aged Indian man who informed us all that he had been a preacher for twenty years and that in the past week he had performed a wedding and two funerals in a single day. "Oh, so you're clearly qualified," I thought to myself. (He later mentioned this same exact fun fact about himself in front of the packed chapel at the actual wedding.) By a comfortable mile, though, what was most interesting about Pastor Chet was his voice. It was a bizarre amalgamation of three distinct accents and voices: midwestern man who secretly wishes he is British so he rolls his r's whenever possible to appear more genteel, booming Lutheran minister, and humble Indian man longing for the motherland. In particular, Pastor Chet had a very distinct way of saying words that ended with "d," most notably, "God." (Being as how it was a wedding and all, God made several appearances in the ceremony.) Pastor Chet said God with a long "o" like in "go" and overemphasized the d at the end to the point of lunacy. Oh, how I had to clench every muscle in my body to keep from giggling as he said "GoDDDD" repeatedly.
At the end of the rehearsal dinner, Pastor Chet offered a prayer that began (I swear I'm not making this up...it's impossible), "Thank GoDDDD for man and woman. Thank GoDDDD for sexUALity..." I would tell you the rest of it but I can't remember it, as I spent the next few minutes of the prayer trying to keep control of myself because the urge to giggle and risk getting the evil eye from Pastor Chet was so overwhelming. I caught sight of a groomsman in my peripheral vision having a breakdown as the laughter began to erupt from deep inside him, but I'm happy to report I held it together until we got to the car and made our way to the rehearsal dinner. (Pastor Chet later also repeated this exact prayer at the wedding, but I was more prepared that time and found my happy place before I could let the giggles take over.)
At the rehearsal dinner, we ate well thanks to Eric's dad and his rockin' drink tickets. We discovered a drink on the menu called the "Kathie B's Hot Sex," which was especially perfect since our Kathy's last name starts (started, I guess, now) with B. Kathy's response to her newfound fame was to give me this pose:
(Kathy, if you want me to take this picture down, just let me know.)
The next morning we did all of those standard pre-wedding activities that were mostly uneventful. During the pre-ceremony pictures, though, I did get to meet an interesting specimen from Eric's family, Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom strolled into the back to the chapel as we were taking pictures, and I could not help but notice his choice of formalwear: a black tuxedo t-shirt tucked into jeans with the biggest belt buckle a human being should be allowed to own legally. He also wore glasses, which he kept firmly affixed to his head with a braided red leather band. Don't worry, though. While the band was flashy, it did not distract from the ponytail he had created with the lower part of his mullet and tied off again in the middle with another rubber band (presumably, just for good measure). Just to complete the mental picture for you, let me just say that dental work was obviously a foreign term to this man. After the wedding Eric informed me that this particular uncle also has a strange proclivity for keeping scissors with him at all times...so much, in fact, that he keeps his scissors in a custom-made scissor holster that stays firmly attached to his pants with a chain at all times. He even, according to Eric, refuses to take off the scissor holster for special occasions like family photos. I'm sorry to report, though, that I did not catch a glimpse of the scissors at the wedding, although I DID get to see Uncle Tom root through the flower arrangements and pick roses for a woman who I presume was his wife. (I know, sometimes there is no explanation other than I guess there really must be someone for everyone.)
Before the wedding, though, everything else was pretty standard.
In fact, everything was pretty standard up through the end of the wedding ceremony. Pastor Chet thanked GoDDD a lot, the kids said their vows. It was all well and good. Then, however, something curious happened. Pastor Chet informed Kathy and Eric that it was their time to kiss and seal their union. They gave each other a short, sweet peck on the lips....because, you know, neither of them is especially big on the public makeout, especially in front of a hundred of their closest family and friends. Pastor Chet, though, was apparently perturbed by the brevity of their kiss, because he proceeded to do the single most ludicrous and hilarious things I've ever seen at a wedding. He physically grabbed their heads and clunked them together like coconuts. Now, granted, he was attempting to get them to kiss again for everyone, but, well...I don't know about you, but when someone grabs my head like they're palming a basketball my natural inclination is to resist. Kathy and Eric both did the same (momentarily) and so the force Pastor Chet exerted to attempt to unify them again was excessive. I swear if it were more silent we would've been able to hear a hollow thud as their skulls collided. Even as I type this, I am nearly weeping from the sheer joy of the mental picture replaying in my mind.
After the wedding, Kathy and Eric went on a carriage ride through Cumming helmed by two burly men decked out in what I can only assume was their best camouflage hunting gear. We later learned that one of the men was, in fact, a woman with some unfortunate facial hair, but I swear she was all man from where I was standing.
The reception was lots of fun. I got to talk to JoAnna and Mike, who had come in from Omaha for the wedding. My toast ended up going ok, although I got really nervous right before I had to give it and kind of screwed part of it up. Some people seemed to really appreciate my particular brand of humor, while others, well....not so much. A few people came up to me afterwards and told me they thought it was funny, although one woman did approach me and say sarcastically, "You think you're some kind of comedian, don't you?" Oh well, can't win em all! At least Kathy seemed to like it.
The rest of the reception was spent dancing, drinking, and laughing it up with friends. Pretty standard. I got to manage the bride's side of the dollar dance festivities. (If you're not familiar, this is a custom to raise money for the couple. People pay $1 minimum--although they are cheap bastards if they go in for anything less than $10--to dance with either the bride or the groom.) At one point my retinas almost nearly burned out of my eyes when I looked over to see one of Kathy's male cousins dancing with Eric with his hands so firmly on Eric's butt (and partially into his crack) it was like his life depended on that dollar dance. The next morning Kathy and Eric met us for breakfast at Perkins, and Eric informed me that after that dance the cousin asked Eric, "You want a 24-point inspection to go with that lube job I just gave ya?" That, friends, is your quote of the day.
So, you know, all in all a wonderful wedding weekend.
Y and I made our way to the ceremony site for the rehearsal dinner on Friday, and it was here that we get to meet Pastor Chet for the first time. Let me say before I get started here that Pastor Chet is delightfully insane and I have no idea where Kathy and Eric found him, but I am so glad they did. Pastor Chet was a small, middle-aged Indian man who informed us all that he had been a preacher for twenty years and that in the past week he had performed a wedding and two funerals in a single day. "Oh, so you're clearly qualified," I thought to myself. (He later mentioned this same exact fun fact about himself in front of the packed chapel at the actual wedding.) By a comfortable mile, though, what was most interesting about Pastor Chet was his voice. It was a bizarre amalgamation of three distinct accents and voices: midwestern man who secretly wishes he is British so he rolls his r's whenever possible to appear more genteel, booming Lutheran minister, and humble Indian man longing for the motherland. In particular, Pastor Chet had a very distinct way of saying words that ended with "d," most notably, "God." (Being as how it was a wedding and all, God made several appearances in the ceremony.) Pastor Chet said God with a long "o" like in "go" and overemphasized the d at the end to the point of lunacy. Oh, how I had to clench every muscle in my body to keep from giggling as he said "GoDDDD" repeatedly.
At the end of the rehearsal dinner, Pastor Chet offered a prayer that began (I swear I'm not making this up...it's impossible), "Thank GoDDDD for man and woman. Thank GoDDDD for sexUALity..." I would tell you the rest of it but I can't remember it, as I spent the next few minutes of the prayer trying to keep control of myself because the urge to giggle and risk getting the evil eye from Pastor Chet was so overwhelming. I caught sight of a groomsman in my peripheral vision having a breakdown as the laughter began to erupt from deep inside him, but I'm happy to report I held it together until we got to the car and made our way to the rehearsal dinner. (Pastor Chet later also repeated this exact prayer at the wedding, but I was more prepared that time and found my happy place before I could let the giggles take over.)
At the rehearsal dinner, we ate well thanks to Eric's dad and his rockin' drink tickets. We discovered a drink on the menu called the "Kathie B's Hot Sex," which was especially perfect since our Kathy's last name starts (started, I guess, now) with B. Kathy's response to her newfound fame was to give me this pose:
(Kathy, if you want me to take this picture down, just let me know.)
In case you're wondering, I DID drink the Kathie B's Hot Sex and it was everything I thought it would be. Giggity giggity goooooo.
The next morning we did all of those standard pre-wedding activities that were mostly uneventful. During the pre-ceremony pictures, though, I did get to meet an interesting specimen from Eric's family, Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom strolled into the back to the chapel as we were taking pictures, and I could not help but notice his choice of formalwear: a black tuxedo t-shirt tucked into jeans with the biggest belt buckle a human being should be allowed to own legally. He also wore glasses, which he kept firmly affixed to his head with a braided red leather band. Don't worry, though. While the band was flashy, it did not distract from the ponytail he had created with the lower part of his mullet and tied off again in the middle with another rubber band (presumably, just for good measure). Just to complete the mental picture for you, let me just say that dental work was obviously a foreign term to this man. After the wedding Eric informed me that this particular uncle also has a strange proclivity for keeping scissors with him at all times...so much, in fact, that he keeps his scissors in a custom-made scissor holster that stays firmly attached to his pants with a chain at all times. He even, according to Eric, refuses to take off the scissor holster for special occasions like family photos. I'm sorry to report, though, that I did not catch a glimpse of the scissors at the wedding, although I DID get to see Uncle Tom root through the flower arrangements and pick roses for a woman who I presume was his wife. (I know, sometimes there is no explanation other than I guess there really must be someone for everyone.)
Before the wedding, though, everything else was pretty standard.
In fact, everything was pretty standard up through the end of the wedding ceremony. Pastor Chet thanked GoDDD a lot, the kids said their vows. It was all well and good. Then, however, something curious happened. Pastor Chet informed Kathy and Eric that it was their time to kiss and seal their union. They gave each other a short, sweet peck on the lips....because, you know, neither of them is especially big on the public makeout, especially in front of a hundred of their closest family and friends. Pastor Chet, though, was apparently perturbed by the brevity of their kiss, because he proceeded to do the single most ludicrous and hilarious things I've ever seen at a wedding. He physically grabbed their heads and clunked them together like coconuts. Now, granted, he was attempting to get them to kiss again for everyone, but, well...I don't know about you, but when someone grabs my head like they're palming a basketball my natural inclination is to resist. Kathy and Eric both did the same (momentarily) and so the force Pastor Chet exerted to attempt to unify them again was excessive. I swear if it were more silent we would've been able to hear a hollow thud as their skulls collided. Even as I type this, I am nearly weeping from the sheer joy of the mental picture replaying in my mind.
After the wedding, Kathy and Eric went on a carriage ride through Cumming helmed by two burly men decked out in what I can only assume was their best camouflage hunting gear. We later learned that one of the men was, in fact, a woman with some unfortunate facial hair, but I swear she was all man from where I was standing.
The reception was lots of fun. I got to talk to JoAnna and Mike, who had come in from Omaha for the wedding. My toast ended up going ok, although I got really nervous right before I had to give it and kind of screwed part of it up. Some people seemed to really appreciate my particular brand of humor, while others, well....not so much. A few people came up to me afterwards and told me they thought it was funny, although one woman did approach me and say sarcastically, "You think you're some kind of comedian, don't you?" Oh well, can't win em all! At least Kathy seemed to like it.
The rest of the reception was spent dancing, drinking, and laughing it up with friends. Pretty standard. I got to manage the bride's side of the dollar dance festivities. (If you're not familiar, this is a custom to raise money for the couple. People pay $1 minimum--although they are cheap bastards if they go in for anything less than $10--to dance with either the bride or the groom.) At one point my retinas almost nearly burned out of my eyes when I looked over to see one of Kathy's male cousins dancing with Eric with his hands so firmly on Eric's butt (and partially into his crack) it was like his life depended on that dollar dance. The next morning Kathy and Eric met us for breakfast at Perkins, and Eric informed me that after that dance the cousin asked Eric, "You want a 24-point inspection to go with that lube job I just gave ya?" That, friends, is your quote of the day.
So, you know, all in all a wonderful wedding weekend.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Wedding: Part I--The "Hotel"
So the big wedding was last weekend. I'd apologize for not updating about it sooner, but I couldn't be bothered. All in all, it was an outstanding weekend. I had a great time getting to see Kathy and JoAnna again, and I loooooved getting to see Carissa and meet new baby Marin.
Y and I left on Thursday evening to begin the 10 hour drive. We originally planned to stay overnight on the way and finish the drive the next day, but we decided about 3 hours in that we were still young and vibrant and could make the whole drive at once and arrive in Des Moines after 3 a.m. Idiots. I called the "hotel" (you'll understand why the quotes are necessary soon enough) and asked if we could check in a night early (we had already prepaid two nights) and they said yes.
At 3:30 a.m. we rolled up to the Ramada Inn in Clive and checked in. Not so much to our surprise (as the room was only $70/night), it was clear the furnishings had not been updated since the Carter administration. We did not care, though. We were dying from lack of sleep. As my husband lay his head upon his pillow to begin his blissful rest, we discovered it was going to be an interesting stay at this place. His pillow felt, quite literally, like a sack of rags. Upon inserting his hand into the pillowcase and braving the yellow, stained pillow, he discovered it was actually one very thin, lumpy pillow the hotel staff had creatively folded in half and put back in the pillowcase to avoid having to buy a new one. Classy.
We went to sleep, and later in the morning we arose to meet Carissa for lunch. As we were getting ready at around 10:30, we heard someone put a key card into the door and then attempt to burst right in. The only thing keeping him out was the deadbolt I had locked the night before. I gave my husband a "What the F?!" and then followed the man down the corridor. He wasn't wearing any uniform, nametag, or other identification, but he told me he worked for the hotel and that we were supposed to be out of the room. I told him we were paid up until Sunday, actually, and that checkout wasn't until noon anyway, thus meaning he had zero reason to attempt to barge into our room without knocking first at 10:30 in the morning regardless of the circumstances. His response? He walked away. Again, classy.
A couple of minutes later the phone rang. It was the girl at the front desk asking if we were going to check out or if she should charge us for another night. Godddddd. We decided to go down to the front desk and straighten everything out in person, as the girl on the phone seemed to be clueless when I told her we had prepaid through Sunday. My husband grabbed his creepy pillow to exchange it and we left the room. I realized that I had forgotten something I needed, though, and pushed down on the door handle (forgetting momentarily to put the key in the door first). Much to my shock and horror, the door opened right up without the key. After fiddling with it for a minute to confirm that the door did, in fact, NOT lock at all and that the key cards were useless for the door, I decided it was time to put on my business voice.
I made Y stay in the room to guard everything we owned as I went to the front desk to straighted out the bill situation and bust some ass about our busted-ass door lock. I first dealt with the issue of the bill. I'll spare you the details of that one, but do trust me when I say it was a delightful adventure in what I can only imagine was an adventure in illiteracy. Next I turned to the room situation.
Me: "I am HORRIFIED that you guys put us in a room that doesn't lock, and that we slept there last night with literally ANYONE being able to walk in willy nilly. So you're going to put us into a new room now."
Her: "Oh, ok. Are you ok with moving up to the 3rd floor?"
Wow, seriously? Am I the only one who believes she was far too cavalier about this situation, as if, perhaps, this is a rather common complaint at the Ramada Inn of Clive? And how much should we bet they didn't fix it and there is some sucker sleeping in that death trap room right now?
So we moved rooms, but before we left our first room we did notice that our Ramada Inn mattress said Fairfield Inn. My husband and I are still debating whether they bought the Fairfield Inn's old mattresses (charming) OR straight-up stole them from them. Either option is viable, but I lean toward the latter.
So we moved to our new room, which was a palace by comparison. In this room our door actually locked (gasp!) and we didn't have to access it from the outside (yay, interior hallways!), but we did get to have an Easter egg hunt for carpet staples (total tally- 7) and had a precarious toilet whose seat was bolted down on only one side, so imagine the fun and games of that one!
When we were leaving we also delighted in their oh-so-sophisticated "excuse our mess" signs as they "renovated" the hovel...er....excuse me, hotel. I bet they really did regret the "inconvienence" and appreciated our kind "coopertion." Perrrrfect. Just so you know, that hotel has been "under construction" for over a year, so those signs have been up for as long. Let it bloom, friends. Let it bloom.
Coming up next: Part II--Adventures with Pastor Chet
Quote of the day: My husband, as we were driving to Iowa and becoming delirious, began entertaining me with poop jokes. "I dropped so many kids off at the pool it felt like an orphanage!"
Y and I left on Thursday evening to begin the 10 hour drive. We originally planned to stay overnight on the way and finish the drive the next day, but we decided about 3 hours in that we were still young and vibrant and could make the whole drive at once and arrive in Des Moines after 3 a.m. Idiots. I called the "hotel" (you'll understand why the quotes are necessary soon enough) and asked if we could check in a night early (we had already prepaid two nights) and they said yes.
At 3:30 a.m. we rolled up to the Ramada Inn in Clive and checked in. Not so much to our surprise (as the room was only $70/night), it was clear the furnishings had not been updated since the Carter administration. We did not care, though. We were dying from lack of sleep. As my husband lay his head upon his pillow to begin his blissful rest, we discovered it was going to be an interesting stay at this place. His pillow felt, quite literally, like a sack of rags. Upon inserting his hand into the pillowcase and braving the yellow, stained pillow, he discovered it was actually one very thin, lumpy pillow the hotel staff had creatively folded in half and put back in the pillowcase to avoid having to buy a new one. Classy.
We went to sleep, and later in the morning we arose to meet Carissa for lunch. As we were getting ready at around 10:30, we heard someone put a key card into the door and then attempt to burst right in. The only thing keeping him out was the deadbolt I had locked the night before. I gave my husband a "What the F?!" and then followed the man down the corridor. He wasn't wearing any uniform, nametag, or other identification, but he told me he worked for the hotel and that we were supposed to be out of the room. I told him we were paid up until Sunday, actually, and that checkout wasn't until noon anyway, thus meaning he had zero reason to attempt to barge into our room without knocking first at 10:30 in the morning regardless of the circumstances. His response? He walked away. Again, classy.
A couple of minutes later the phone rang. It was the girl at the front desk asking if we were going to check out or if she should charge us for another night. Godddddd. We decided to go down to the front desk and straighten everything out in person, as the girl on the phone seemed to be clueless when I told her we had prepaid through Sunday. My husband grabbed his creepy pillow to exchange it and we left the room. I realized that I had forgotten something I needed, though, and pushed down on the door handle (forgetting momentarily to put the key in the door first). Much to my shock and horror, the door opened right up without the key. After fiddling with it for a minute to confirm that the door did, in fact, NOT lock at all and that the key cards were useless for the door, I decided it was time to put on my business voice.
I made Y stay in the room to guard everything we owned as I went to the front desk to straighted out the bill situation and bust some ass about our busted-ass door lock. I first dealt with the issue of the bill. I'll spare you the details of that one, but do trust me when I say it was a delightful adventure in what I can only imagine was an adventure in illiteracy. Next I turned to the room situation.
Me: "I am HORRIFIED that you guys put us in a room that doesn't lock, and that we slept there last night with literally ANYONE being able to walk in willy nilly. So you're going to put us into a new room now."
Her: "Oh, ok. Are you ok with moving up to the 3rd floor?"
Wow, seriously? Am I the only one who believes she was far too cavalier about this situation, as if, perhaps, this is a rather common complaint at the Ramada Inn of Clive? And how much should we bet they didn't fix it and there is some sucker sleeping in that death trap room right now?
So we moved rooms, but before we left our first room we did notice that our Ramada Inn mattress said Fairfield Inn. My husband and I are still debating whether they bought the Fairfield Inn's old mattresses (charming) OR straight-up stole them from them. Either option is viable, but I lean toward the latter.
So we moved to our new room, which was a palace by comparison. In this room our door actually locked (gasp!) and we didn't have to access it from the outside (yay, interior hallways!), but we did get to have an Easter egg hunt for carpet staples (total tally- 7) and had a precarious toilet whose seat was bolted down on only one side, so imagine the fun and games of that one!
When we were leaving we also delighted in their oh-so-sophisticated "excuse our mess" signs as they "renovated" the hovel...er....excuse me, hotel. I bet they really did regret the "inconvienence" and appreciated our kind "coopertion." Perrrrfect. Just so you know, that hotel has been "under construction" for over a year, so those signs have been up for as long. Let it bloom, friends. Let it bloom.
Coming up next: Part II--Adventures with Pastor Chet
Quote of the day: My husband, as we were driving to Iowa and becoming delirious, began entertaining me with poop jokes. "I dropped so many kids off at the pool it felt like an orphanage!"
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Frigging Miracle
You'll never believe it. David has escaped certain death just in the nick of time. Yes. He finally sent the deposit check. And it only took him four months and several carefully planned terrible lies!
The Cadbury egg....still there. I will be away from it for several days as we're leaving tomorrow for Kathy's wedding, but I will cross my fingers that it will still be there when I return to work on Monday.
So yes, the big wedding is this weekend, and I am thrilled to see my friends. Kathy, JoAnna, Carissa, and even The Jer. *siiigh* It'll be nice. Expect a full report on the wedding events and the horrors of our road trip sometime next week. And cross your fingers that our rental car doesn't end up being another craptastic Kia Spectra with busted speakers and no cruise control. Also, cross your fingers that I can muster up finishing writing this toast speech. Under normal circumstances I would just wing it, but my friendship and comfort level with Kathy is very unique, and I fear if I wing it I will end up making revolting diarrhea references or other assorted offensive comments that only Kathy would find amusing. While it's unlikely that I'd ever see many of these people again and thus shouldn't care too much about offending them, I still don't want to go down in history as the ogre who ruined the wedding reception by sparking a chain of projectile vomiting among the guests.
Ok, no quote of the day today, but dry your eyes. I will make it up to you another time. I'm off to go pack.
Oh, and keep those personal quirks comin! (see previous post if you're confused!) They DELIGHT me.
The Cadbury egg....still there. I will be away from it for several days as we're leaving tomorrow for Kathy's wedding, but I will cross my fingers that it will still be there when I return to work on Monday.
So yes, the big wedding is this weekend, and I am thrilled to see my friends. Kathy, JoAnna, Carissa, and even The Jer. *siiigh* It'll be nice. Expect a full report on the wedding events and the horrors of our road trip sometime next week. And cross your fingers that our rental car doesn't end up being another craptastic Kia Spectra with busted speakers and no cruise control. Also, cross your fingers that I can muster up finishing writing this toast speech. Under normal circumstances I would just wing it, but my friendship and comfort level with Kathy is very unique, and I fear if I wing it I will end up making revolting diarrhea references or other assorted offensive comments that only Kathy would find amusing. While it's unlikely that I'd ever see many of these people again and thus shouldn't care too much about offending them, I still don't want to go down in history as the ogre who ruined the wedding reception by sparking a chain of projectile vomiting among the guests.
Ok, no quote of the day today, but dry your eyes. I will make it up to you another time. I'm off to go pack.
Oh, and keep those personal quirks comin! (see previous post if you're confused!) They DELIGHT me.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Seven Deadly Idiosyncrasies
Still no deposit check back from David. You're shocked, I can tell. (Pssst...I am not.) How sorry he should be that he promised to get me the deposit money he owes us by today. Unfortunately for him, my next angry phone call comes tomorrow evening. I think it's time to remind him that I dislike liars, so he should really make sure he gets his suit dry cleaned to meet my smiling face in court....for the full amount of the deposit and then some. Awww shucks.
Anyway, on to my main reason for today's entry...
A while back, an acquaintance challenged me to go public with no less than seven personal quirks. At the time I thought, "Ha! Amateur! I could tell seven quirks about food preparation alone." But then I decided to think about it and really inspect myself for noteworthy ones. What follows is what I felt like writing down. So without further ado, I present you with my seven quirks that made the cut.
1. I love (LOVE) lists. Making them. Reading other people's lists. Assigning categories to things. There is an order and structure to them that delights me to the core. As you might imagine, this very list is satisfying a deep desire inside myself to line everything in my house up at right angles. All the reward with only a fraction of the work!
2. I am very particular about my socks. If they don't fit perfectly, if they're slightly askew, if they have a tiny little stray thread swimming around in them, I feel it and it makes me insane. I can't just let it go or adjust to it. It will torment me until I have to take off my shoe and readjust everything.
3. I like to eat some foods in exact proportion. Specifically, M&Ms. Say, for example, I purchase one of those little bags of M&Ms during a weak moment in the checkout lane at the grocery store. Let's say I open the bag and there are 5 browns, 6 reds, 3 greens, 4 yellows, and 3 blues. After I curse the company for screwing me with an underfilled bag, I arrange all of the candies by color, then begin eating them down so the overall proportion never gets out of whack. So first I eat a red by itself, then a red and brown together, etc. until I have the same amount of each color all the way to the end. This is a relatively new phenomenon for me, but I see now how mentally ill it looks, so perhaps I should work on that.
4. I have deep and unjustified loathing for commercials that employ computer-animated/cartoon animals to really sell it to us. Case in point- the Airwick commercials with the elephant mom speaking in a tidy English accent about how her Airwick eliminates the odor of her disgusting family. Another case in point- the Nasonex bee. God. Get a life, losers. It makes no sense, and I don't think I can roll my eyes far enough into my head to express my disdain for these advertisements. Additionally, I hate commercials that employ computer-animated people. Suck it up! Get real people! Shell out the fifty bucks and go for it. Hell, call me! I'll do it for twenty. Beggars can't be choosers.
5. Sometimes I fixate on things that shouldn't even concern me a little bit. For example, there has been a Cadbury egg in the parking lot of my work since Easter. I know this because the Monday after Easter I parked my car and saw the Cadbury egg and thought to myself, "Those were gold when I was a kid. I should take it. Noooo, that is disgusting. But it IS all wrapped up still. But I don't even like them. But maybe I could give it to someone else, since it's obviously still good and all. But then, in good conscience I would probably have to tell them I found it in the parking lot....etc." You get the idea. So since then I've made it a point to specifically look for the Cadbury egg and see if it's still there. Nearly a month later, it doesn't let me down! Part of me thinks I may be a little sad when it finally disappears. And even then there will be lingering questions. Did someone else take it? If so, did they know it had been sitting there for a month? Or did it blow away? And if so, where to? Will an animal choke to death on its shiny foil wrapper? *sigh*
6. I appreciate few things more than a perfectly worded sentence. There are times (like now) when I spend over an hour working on this steaming turd of a blog to retool sentences and paragraphs until they click in my head juuuuust right. It's a sickness. It's also the reason why I don't update as often as I probably should. Often, even if I feel like I have a story to tell you, I just don't want to deal with my own neurotic editing process.
7. (FINALLY!) Sometimes I think I must be a little bit autistic. I do weird things like count the number of times a person says "ha" when they laugh. Or the number of times a particular person in a crowd claps. And when people speak, I sometimes imagine a scrolling marquee above their head with the text of what they're saying to me passing by. It's like I'm my own closed captioning! So if someone says something mundane to me like, "I went to the store," I will envision it in my head as if I'm typing it and spelling out each word. "I space w-e-n-t space t-o space t-h-e space s-t-o-r-e period." I remember first doing this in high school to alleviate boredom, but now it's part of me.
So there ya go, kids. Seven more pieces of evidence that remind you you should probably have nothing to do with me. Care to accept the challenge and reveal your own?
Anyway, on to my main reason for today's entry...
A while back, an acquaintance challenged me to go public with no less than seven personal quirks. At the time I thought, "Ha! Amateur! I could tell seven quirks about food preparation alone." But then I decided to think about it and really inspect myself for noteworthy ones. What follows is what I felt like writing down. So without further ado, I present you with my seven quirks that made the cut.
1. I love (LOVE) lists. Making them. Reading other people's lists. Assigning categories to things. There is an order and structure to them that delights me to the core. As you might imagine, this very list is satisfying a deep desire inside myself to line everything in my house up at right angles. All the reward with only a fraction of the work!
2. I am very particular about my socks. If they don't fit perfectly, if they're slightly askew, if they have a tiny little stray thread swimming around in them, I feel it and it makes me insane. I can't just let it go or adjust to it. It will torment me until I have to take off my shoe and readjust everything.
3. I like to eat some foods in exact proportion. Specifically, M&Ms. Say, for example, I purchase one of those little bags of M&Ms during a weak moment in the checkout lane at the grocery store. Let's say I open the bag and there are 5 browns, 6 reds, 3 greens, 4 yellows, and 3 blues. After I curse the company for screwing me with an underfilled bag, I arrange all of the candies by color, then begin eating them down so the overall proportion never gets out of whack. So first I eat a red by itself, then a red and brown together, etc. until I have the same amount of each color all the way to the end. This is a relatively new phenomenon for me, but I see now how mentally ill it looks, so perhaps I should work on that.
4. I have deep and unjustified loathing for commercials that employ computer-animated/cartoon animals to really sell it to us. Case in point- the Airwick commercials with the elephant mom speaking in a tidy English accent about how her Airwick eliminates the odor of her disgusting family. Another case in point- the Nasonex bee. God. Get a life, losers. It makes no sense, and I don't think I can roll my eyes far enough into my head to express my disdain for these advertisements. Additionally, I hate commercials that employ computer-animated people. Suck it up! Get real people! Shell out the fifty bucks and go for it. Hell, call me! I'll do it for twenty. Beggars can't be choosers.
5. Sometimes I fixate on things that shouldn't even concern me a little bit. For example, there has been a Cadbury egg in the parking lot of my work since Easter. I know this because the Monday after Easter I parked my car and saw the Cadbury egg and thought to myself, "Those were gold when I was a kid. I should take it. Noooo, that is disgusting. But it IS all wrapped up still. But I don't even like them. But maybe I could give it to someone else, since it's obviously still good and all. But then, in good conscience I would probably have to tell them I found it in the parking lot....etc." You get the idea. So since then I've made it a point to specifically look for the Cadbury egg and see if it's still there. Nearly a month later, it doesn't let me down! Part of me thinks I may be a little sad when it finally disappears. And even then there will be lingering questions. Did someone else take it? If so, did they know it had been sitting there for a month? Or did it blow away? And if so, where to? Will an animal choke to death on its shiny foil wrapper? *sigh*
6. I appreciate few things more than a perfectly worded sentence. There are times (like now) when I spend over an hour working on this steaming turd of a blog to retool sentences and paragraphs until they click in my head juuuuust right. It's a sickness. It's also the reason why I don't update as often as I probably should. Often, even if I feel like I have a story to tell you, I just don't want to deal with my own neurotic editing process.
7. (FINALLY!) Sometimes I think I must be a little bit autistic. I do weird things like count the number of times a person says "ha" when they laugh. Or the number of times a particular person in a crowd claps. And when people speak, I sometimes imagine a scrolling marquee above their head with the text of what they're saying to me passing by. It's like I'm my own closed captioning! So if someone says something mundane to me like, "I went to the store," I will envision it in my head as if I'm typing it and spelling out each word. "I space w-e-n-t space t-o space t-h-e space s-t-o-r-e period." I remember first doing this in high school to alleviate boredom, but now it's part of me.
So there ya go, kids. Seven more pieces of evidence that remind you you should probably have nothing to do with me. Care to accept the challenge and reveal your own?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Phishing for Answers
Yesterday evening, I had to give a little girl the nonsense words test that I wrote about a few posts ago. Guess what word came up, friends? Oh, you guessed it. P-H-I-S-H.
How did the little girl pronounce it?
FISH.
I am vindicated. She missed every other word, but for the love of God, at least she got that one without hesitation.
In other news, many of you know about my ongoing one-sided death match with my former landlord. For the sake of this blog we'll call him David (because that is his name). If you remember the old Windows Live Spaces blog, I'm sure you'll recall a number of problems I had with David. They included (but are not limited to):
1. He attempted to cut down a 30-foot-long span of 8-foot-tall bushes with a pair of hedge trimmers and then, because he was too cheap to haul the yard waste away, he systematically attempted to BURN the bushes IN A PAINT CAN (I swear) over the course of several weeks, violating numerous city codes related to fire, smoke, being an idiot, etc. This brought Kathy and me ENDLESS delight as we would observe this burning ritual day after day until finally some neighbor called the fire department and they came and made him put it out. (I have pictures. Thanks again, Kathy, for having the presence of mind to document the occasion.) In case you're wondering, he made about eight feet of progress and then left the wilted shrubs out to rot. They're still there along with the now-rusted paint can.
2. He had a "girlfriend" (this is in quotes because it seemed that she was more of an indentured servant than a girlfriend) who was very nice but was, for lack of a better word, his bitch. There was NO END to the things he would ask her to do for him, and much to our amazement she did them all! Goodbyeeeee, self esteem, is all I can say about that. These chores included her manning the burning paint can for hours on end while he left or played chess and drank with his roommate; taking his laundry away, doing it for him, and then returning it FOLDED for him; cooking for him AND his roommate; and (this is my favorite) mowing the lawn at ten o'clock at night in the PITCH DARK for him. After ALL of this that she did for him, David admitted to Kathy that the girlfriend was nice but that he wished he would've found someone hotter. Just...just read it all again and then let it stew. Yeah....now you've come along on that journey.
3. He refused to do anything like help with snow removal, despite the fact that he lived there too, so by the time we moved out it was a death trap of glacially compacted ice. My husband and I had to go buy 120 pounds of sand to put on the driveway just to keep ourselves from dying as we moved all the heavy stuff.
4. He forced me to play chess with him once and then bragged about his liquor stock, which, when I added it up in my head, was worth more than my CAR.
5. Sunday night Martini Nights. I swear. Is it sinking in what a douchebag this guy is?
6. To top it all of, he had (has) a myspace page, and the background of the page is tiled pictures of Michaelangelo's statue of David. Our David, dipshit, douchebag landlord David, has written on his profile, "By the way, that picture is the statue of David." It just...makes me cringe.
Anyway, before we moved out I left David a note telling him my new address and how to get ahold of me and all of that crap so he could send my deposit to me. Weeks passed and in the middle of February I called him (having found his phone number on the infamous myspace page because he never would actually give it to me in person). I left a voicemail reminding him to send it. He did nothing.
So a couple of weeks later I called and left another voicemail that was a little firmer. Again, nothing.
Finally I got pissed and put on my business voice and drafted a letter in March that said, essentially, "I will have you by the balls in court if you don't send my deposit back by (insert date here)." STILL nothing, as my "I'd better have that check in hand by April 11th" ultimatum neared.
Well, kids. Imagine my surprise when he called the other night. Incredible. "Whaaaaa?" he asked like the true wank he is. "I totally sent you your deposit back and an explanation of charges way back in January!"
Me: "Noooo ya didn't. And didn't you notice that that much money never left your bank account?"
Him: "I'll be honest, I don't really check my bank account ever." UH HUH.
Me: "Well I never got the money that you claim you sent. I don't want to have to sue you because it is going to be an enormous pain in my ass, but I will do it. I'll be there next week for a wedding and I'll file papers while I'm there if I have to."
Him: "No no! Oh this is just a miscommunication! I'll FedEx a new check on Friday! Saturday at the latest."
Me: "Uh huh."
Etc. Etc. Blah blah it was insufferable.
It went on like this for a few minutes, but I can't be bothered typing it all. The point is he's keeping $140 of the deposit because he claims he needed to replace the drip pans on the stove (that's fair) and change some lightbulbs (interesting, since apparently in his world lightbulbs go for something like $10 a pop, and there were only three fixed ceiling bulbs in the entire apartment anyway, all of which worked just fine when we left). He also claimed my roommate stacked up "18 bags of trash" that he had to pay extra to remove, which is hilarious because 1. all the trash that was there was there before I left, and Kathy specifically talked to David about it being a lot of trash and he said no problem....she added nothing to it and MOST of that trash was stuff that had been accumulating from both apartments for a month because it was icy and David wouldn't help us take the trash down (he made his girlfriend do it), and frankly we were sick of it; and 2. according to an acquaintance who drove by the place at the end of March, all (ALL) of that trash was STILL THERE, thus showing he hasn't paid extra to get rid of it.
Blah, whatever. So the point is I'm supposed to be FINALLY getting this deposit back (or most of it, since I don't feel like fighting him tooth-and-nail about the rest of it, even though I should just to make his life a living hell) soon. I don't know about you, but I'll believe it when I see it.
How did the little girl pronounce it?
FISH.
I am vindicated. She missed every other word, but for the love of God, at least she got that one without hesitation.
In other news, many of you know about my ongoing one-sided death match with my former landlord. For the sake of this blog we'll call him David (because that is his name). If you remember the old Windows Live Spaces blog, I'm sure you'll recall a number of problems I had with David. They included (but are not limited to):
1. He attempted to cut down a 30-foot-long span of 8-foot-tall bushes with a pair of hedge trimmers and then, because he was too cheap to haul the yard waste away, he systematically attempted to BURN the bushes IN A PAINT CAN (I swear) over the course of several weeks, violating numerous city codes related to fire, smoke, being an idiot, etc. This brought Kathy and me ENDLESS delight as we would observe this burning ritual day after day until finally some neighbor called the fire department and they came and made him put it out. (I have pictures. Thanks again, Kathy, for having the presence of mind to document the occasion.) In case you're wondering, he made about eight feet of progress and then left the wilted shrubs out to rot. They're still there along with the now-rusted paint can.
2. He had a "girlfriend" (this is in quotes because it seemed that she was more of an indentured servant than a girlfriend) who was very nice but was, for lack of a better word, his bitch. There was NO END to the things he would ask her to do for him, and much to our amazement she did them all! Goodbyeeeee, self esteem, is all I can say about that. These chores included her manning the burning paint can for hours on end while he left or played chess and drank with his roommate; taking his laundry away, doing it for him, and then returning it FOLDED for him; cooking for him AND his roommate; and (this is my favorite) mowing the lawn at ten o'clock at night in the PITCH DARK for him. After ALL of this that she did for him, David admitted to Kathy that the girlfriend was nice but that he wished he would've found someone hotter. Just...just read it all again and then let it stew. Yeah....now you've come along on that journey.
3. He refused to do anything like help with snow removal, despite the fact that he lived there too, so by the time we moved out it was a death trap of glacially compacted ice. My husband and I had to go buy 120 pounds of sand to put on the driveway just to keep ourselves from dying as we moved all the heavy stuff.
4. He forced me to play chess with him once and then bragged about his liquor stock, which, when I added it up in my head, was worth more than my CAR.
5. Sunday night Martini Nights. I swear. Is it sinking in what a douchebag this guy is?
6. To top it all of, he had (has) a myspace page, and the background of the page is tiled pictures of Michaelangelo's statue of David. Our David, dipshit, douchebag landlord David, has written on his profile, "By the way, that picture is the statue of David." It just...makes me cringe.
Anyway, before we moved out I left David a note telling him my new address and how to get ahold of me and all of that crap so he could send my deposit to me. Weeks passed and in the middle of February I called him (having found his phone number on the infamous myspace page because he never would actually give it to me in person). I left a voicemail reminding him to send it. He did nothing.
So a couple of weeks later I called and left another voicemail that was a little firmer. Again, nothing.
Finally I got pissed and put on my business voice and drafted a letter in March that said, essentially, "I will have you by the balls in court if you don't send my deposit back by (insert date here)." STILL nothing, as my "I'd better have that check in hand by April 11th" ultimatum neared.
Well, kids. Imagine my surprise when he called the other night. Incredible. "Whaaaaa?" he asked like the true wank he is. "I totally sent you your deposit back and an explanation of charges way back in January!"
Me: "Noooo ya didn't. And didn't you notice that that much money never left your bank account?"
Him: "I'll be honest, I don't really check my bank account ever." UH HUH.
Me: "Well I never got the money that you claim you sent. I don't want to have to sue you because it is going to be an enormous pain in my ass, but I will do it. I'll be there next week for a wedding and I'll file papers while I'm there if I have to."
Him: "No no! Oh this is just a miscommunication! I'll FedEx a new check on Friday! Saturday at the latest."
Me: "Uh huh."
Etc. Etc. Blah blah it was insufferable.
It went on like this for a few minutes, but I can't be bothered typing it all. The point is he's keeping $140 of the deposit because he claims he needed to replace the drip pans on the stove (that's fair) and change some lightbulbs (interesting, since apparently in his world lightbulbs go for something like $10 a pop, and there were only three fixed ceiling bulbs in the entire apartment anyway, all of which worked just fine when we left). He also claimed my roommate stacked up "18 bags of trash" that he had to pay extra to remove, which is hilarious because 1. all the trash that was there was there before I left, and Kathy specifically talked to David about it being a lot of trash and he said no problem....she added nothing to it and MOST of that trash was stuff that had been accumulating from both apartments for a month because it was icy and David wouldn't help us take the trash down (he made his girlfriend do it), and frankly we were sick of it; and 2. according to an acquaintance who drove by the place at the end of March, all (ALL) of that trash was STILL THERE, thus showing he hasn't paid extra to get rid of it.
Blah, whatever. So the point is I'm supposed to be FINALLY getting this deposit back (or most of it, since I don't feel like fighting him tooth-and-nail about the rest of it, even though I should just to make his life a living hell) soon. I don't know about you, but I'll believe it when I see it.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Classhole's Honor Society--A Resolution
Go back quickly and refresh your memory about my honor society debacle. Do it. It's ok, I'll wait. Ok, so I finally received all of the crap I told you I had been waiting for for nearly a year. This, kids, is where things get delightful. I retrieved the mail thinking, "Oooh, yay!"
Upon opening the envelope with my materials in it, I realized it was silly of me to have any expectations of these people. For starters, the certificate came folded in quarters and it looks beaten up, like someone carried around in their backpack for weeks and finally mailed it as an afterthought. Niiiiiiice. The best part, though, is that....well, ya know how certificates generally have little sections on them for people to sign and authenticate them so they're legit? Yeahhh, apparently no one could be bothered to sign mine because it's completely blank like I stole it or made my own on the computer. No signatures of chapter president or faculty sponsor. Just a sad, empty, beat-up certificate. It'll be just lovely if I apply for jobs and someone asks for proof that I'm a part of this group! I can happily take them my piece of crap certificate and say, "Well, there ya go! Oh, yeah I know it looks like a 5-year-old mailed it to me, but mentally it's close enough." Perhaps I'll forge some signatures to go in the blanks. I think Charlize Theron will be the chapter president and George Clooney will be the faculty sponsor! Why not?! Let's see who notices. Feel free to offer suggestions for names for this section of the certificate.
Today's quote of the day comes from another wee lad at the tutoring center. He is six and crazy and he's also good at reminding me of how much I'm getting older. Today he astounded me with his incredible long-term memory: "I remember lotsa stuff! I can remember things all the way back to 2007!" Me too, tiny tot...just barely.
Upon opening the envelope with my materials in it, I realized it was silly of me to have any expectations of these people. For starters, the certificate came folded in quarters and it looks beaten up, like someone carried around in their backpack for weeks and finally mailed it as an afterthought. Niiiiiiice. The best part, though, is that....well, ya know how certificates generally have little sections on them for people to sign and authenticate them so they're legit? Yeahhh, apparently no one could be bothered to sign mine because it's completely blank like I stole it or made my own on the computer. No signatures of chapter president or faculty sponsor. Just a sad, empty, beat-up certificate. It'll be just lovely if I apply for jobs and someone asks for proof that I'm a part of this group! I can happily take them my piece of crap certificate and say, "Well, there ya go! Oh, yeah I know it looks like a 5-year-old mailed it to me, but mentally it's close enough." Perhaps I'll forge some signatures to go in the blanks. I think Charlize Theron will be the chapter president and George Clooney will be the faculty sponsor! Why not?! Let's see who notices. Feel free to offer suggestions for names for this section of the certificate.
Today's quote of the day comes from another wee lad at the tutoring center. He is six and crazy and he's also good at reminding me of how much I'm getting older. Today he astounded me with his incredible long-term memory: "I remember lotsa stuff! I can remember things all the way back to 2007!" Me too, tiny tot...just barely.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I Suppose It's All a Matter of Perspective
I don't feel like writing a lot tonight, but I really must pass on what may be the best quote of the day of all time. It comes from a seven-year-old second-grade boy at the tutoring company I work for.
(For the record, he didn't say it to me; he said it to the 60-year-old woman who teaches at the table across from me, and I just happened to hear and and write it down as I suppressed tears of hysterical laughter. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have laughed so hard, because I'm sure as far as that boy is concerned I'd be standing with one foot in the grave too.)
The quote, spoken with the level of astonishment one might expect upon discovering their dog is capable of speaking English:
"You were alive when the first Harry Potter book came out?! You are OLD!"
(For the record, he didn't say it to me; he said it to the 60-year-old woman who teaches at the table across from me, and I just happened to hear and and write it down as I suppressed tears of hysterical laughter. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have laughed so hard, because I'm sure as far as that boy is concerned I'd be standing with one foot in the grave too.)
The quote, spoken with the level of astonishment one might expect upon discovering their dog is capable of speaking English:
"You were alive when the first Harry Potter book came out?! You are OLD!"
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