Visitors Map
Subscribe to Quirky
Posts
All Comments
For Moi?
Showing posts with label Embarrassment is my Middle Name. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Embarrassment is my Middle Name. Show all posts
5/4/12
Squirrel Interrupted
Scene: Mid-morning in a suburban Knoxville neighborhood. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping.
And I am chasing a squirrel around my backyard in my bathrobe.
It's a good thing most of the neighbors are already at work, because here I am, arms waving, crazy bed-head hair, and the folds of my fuzzy blue robe whipping around my calves as I chase a fat gray squirrel around and around the trees in the backyard.
(You know, it's a wonder they haven't had me committed yet).
Anyway. The problem is not the squirrel itself. (In fact, I suppose that based on the description above, most people would argue that it isn't the squirrel that has the problem at all. And to that I stick my tongue out at all of you.) No, I happen to like the squirrel. He's fuzzy and cute and he scampers in a way that I enjoy watching. The PROBLEM, I would say, is a certain destructive squirrel behavior that he insists on continuing...mainly, he enjoys knocking the bird seed out of all of my bird feeders.
And here's the worst part! He doesn't even eat it! I wouldn't mind if Mr. Squirrel was hungry and just needed a little snack. But he doesn't eat any of it at all! He just enjoys hanging from the tree branch by his back legs and shaking the bird feeder back and forth until all the seeds are in a messy little pile on the ground, where no bird (except the occasional dove) will go to eat it. Destructive for the sake of being destructive.
It is a classic case of squirrel behaving badly.
Mr. Squirrel and I have talked previously about this kind of behavior. When he first moved into the area, I told him flat out that he was more than welcome here, but that he needed to abide by a few yard rules...mainly, no climbing into eaves of the house to break into my attic, and no dumping the bird seed out of the feeders. That despite it, you know, literally hanging off of tree limbs, bird seed doesn't just grow on trees. I have to buy that stuff.
Easy enough, right? I do not ask too much. Just a little common squirrel courtesy. But will he abide by the rules? No! He is a punk juvenile delinquent squirrel, and he's deliberately trying to vex me. And this morning when I looked out the kitchen window while waiting for my pop-tart to do its toaster thing, there he was, doing his little upside down act of vandalism and chanting "neener! neener! neener!" in my general direction. So I just snapped. I snatched open the back door and flew, screaming and waving, out onto the deck where I took a running leap and cleared all of the stairs in one stride. "You've done it now, squirrel!", I shrieked. "You've messed up my bird feeders for the last time!" His eyes got really big and round, and you could hear his little squirrel voice go, "Uh-oh! This sister be crazy!"* as he took off racing towards his favorite tree. But I am smarter than this fuzzy-tailed rat, so I had already headed him off at the pass, and he had no choice but to change course with me in hot pursuit. This continued for a lot longer than you would imagine...especially with him being fat for a squirrel and me fueled by my righteous, righteous anger, but eventually the red haze cleared and I began to lose steam. He managed to climb a tree to safety, and I stood at the bottom, shaking my fist and hurling a few choice squirrel insults at him before retreating back to my now-cold pop-tart.
So yes, most of the neighbors now think I'm insane. And perhaps they've seen a little more of me than they bargained for when the flap of my robe got caught on that tree branch. But you can bet that that squirrel will think twice before messing with me again. There's no telling what I'll do to save a little bird seed.
*I have no idea why my squirrel talks to himself like a hip-hop gangster. I didn't make the rules.
1/6/11
This is Just Some Kind of Pregnant Woman Hazing Ritual, Right?
We had our first class of Teddybear University Tuesday tonight. This is the 5 week class that covers birthing and childcare for first time parents. I was actually looking forward to it. Thought it might be reassuring to know what was going to happen.
Don't misunderstand. The instructor is perfectly lovely. She really is. And we have a workbook that is very informative. And we learned lots of helpful things about signs of labor and when to call your doctor and what is a normal feeling and what is not. But she completely lost me when she showed...THE VIDEO.
(You know the one. They've got some poor woman from the 70's in a bed with her feet jacked up to the ceiling and a camera stuck right next to her unmentionable bits. And even though they've cut the sound way down on the final edit, I'm pretty sure she's screaming bloody murder while you get to watch every gruesome moment).
(You know the one. They've got some poor woman from the 70's in a bed with her feet jacked up to the ceiling and a camera stuck right next to her unmentionable bits. And even though they've cut the sound way down on the final edit, I'm pretty sure she's screaming bloody murder while you get to watch every gruesome moment).
No kidding, dear. Guess whose fault that is?
Why does it have to be so disgusting? It's like "Let's take the grossest things we can possibly think of and throw them all in together and call it childbirth". (And as the instructor so cheerfully pointed out, you might even poop in front of everyone too!) I mean, would it have been so hard to have maybe a nice piece of jewelry instead of a mucus plug? A bunch of daisies instead of a placenta? (Women could be all, "Whoops! There goes my bouquet! Stick those in a vase for me, will ya?") I could get behind that.
I know, I know, I hear all of you out there. You're all, "This is a natural and beautiful part of life, and you should cherish it!". And to that I say fine. I'll cherish the wetting my pants and the snot plug and the blood and the gooey stuff all over her and growing a hole to my internal organs that, if anywhere else on the body would probably be fatal, but do I really need to see it? I mean, I'm not the one down there on the catching end. That's why I have a doctor. Let him deal with all the messy parts. The less I need to think about it, the better. (In fact, I wouldn't even be in the same room if I could figure out a way for my bottom half to be giving birth while my top half was down the hall, say, flipping through old magazines in the waiting room).
So...yeah. Not a fan of the video. Or the whole idea of labor in general now that I've seen it. (For me or Baby Girl...going through all that can't really be a picnic on her end either). I'm thinking that it's high time we figure out a better way of getting babies out anyway. Is this not the 21st century? Do we not live in an age of medical advancement? The whole pushing and screaming and gushing thing is soooo beginning of time.
You know what it says on my birth plan? "I want the stork option".
Where do I sign up for the stork?
9/27/10
Oooo, You Make Me Live
Don't you hate it when you make a big stink about something and it turns out that you are double-dead wrong?
And then you have to slink in and eat some crow and pay $30 for a book covered in grossness?
Yeah, me too.
See, I've been having a fight with my local library. (It pains me to even type that because the library and I are BFFs, and up until now we've been seeing each other several times a week, and all the librarians and checkout volunteers know me by name and what kind of reading kick I've been on lately. And it's been years of tea parties and sleepovers and slow-motion romping through daisies together while the Best Friend song from Queen plays in the background). But there comes a time in every friendship where someone gets mad over a misunderstanding (or a little mysterious yellow stuff) and those friends quit speaking for a while.
It all started innocently enough. I checked out a book. I read said book. I returned said book along with several other books through the after-hours book drop. Life was good. But then! Then! One day out of the blue, my BFF library sent me a nasty note. And it said that I had grievously slighted them by spilling "yellow stuff" all over a book and now it was ruined and I owed them $30 for a new book or they wouldn't be my bestest friend anymore SO THERE!
And I, reacting a bit strongly to the idea of my library breaking up with me over a horribly false accusation, called them up to be like, "What yellow stuff!?! I didn't spill any yellow stuff on any book! I would never do that to a book! You're a dirty dirty fibber, and I don't want to be friends with dirty fibbers SO THERE!"
And then the library yelled "Fine!" and I yelled "Fine!" and then we both slammed some doors and went home to play by ourselves. (Metaphorically speaking anyway...in actuality, the library and I were both professional adults where I exclaimed confused but polite dismay and the library professed apologetic but polite insistence and we were both very polite about the whole thing. But the underlying feeling of door slamming was there).
In my head, "yellow stuff" looked like French's mustard, which I do not eat, so why would I smear it all over a book? Why would the library claim such lies about me? Actually, it wouldn't surprise me at all if it was actually the library's fault! They're trying to set me up! I left the book safely in the book drop. Maybe some grubby-handed child visited the library and was playing in the book drop receptacle! Maybe some careless volunteer was eating a mustard sandwich on rye while checking in books and got some on the cover! Formally-bff library is trying to make me the fall guy!
So I sat in my room alone for a few days, feeling abused and missing the library terribly but refusing to admit it, and the library did the same. (Oh sure, they have other patrons, but none of them are BFFs like me). And for a while I tried to make new friends with Borders and Barnes and Noble, but they were more interested in a commercial relationship with me rather than one where they let me read their books for free. And it was horribly lonely.
Then one day a few days later, the library left a message on my answering machine, cautiously suggesting that I come in and see mysterious yellow stuff for myself. It wasn't exactly an overture of friendship, mind you, but at this point I was desperate to see them again, so I agreed.
Driving over, I told myself that if the library admitted that they were wrong, I would take them back graciously. If I told them that I had nothing to do with the yellow stuff and they believed me, then we would put this whole ugly mess behind us. If they said they were sorry and they wanted to be my friend again, I would immediately check out 8 books and make us matching "Friends forever" bracelets. Overall, I was feeling very benevolent and forgiving about the whole thing.
And then I saw the "yellow stuff" they were talking about.
Which sucked, because I recognized it instantly.
And it meant that I was 100% in the wrong, and the library was right.
Darnit.
It was not French's mustard. It was a little thing we like to call kitty barf. And since the library does not have any cats, it was a pretty safe bet that it came from my house, where there are several little furry barf factories of the feline persuasion running amok and having full access to library books. I have no idea why I didn't see it when I scooped the books up to return them, but I didn't. And so I gave the library a hairball-covered book. Mea culpa.
Of course, there was nothing to do after that other than to hang my head and apologize profusely while paying the library $30 for their new book. I am a bad book renter. I do not have the proper respect for the written word. I let my four-legged charges abuse a Times best-seller. I do not deserve to be the library's friend.
The library, however, would hear none of it. (Oh, they still took my $30, but there was no reason to beat myself up over it). These things happen, they said! Who can control kitty barf, they said! Of course you are forgiven! The library has a new book, and I have a commemorative barf-covered one. We shall speak of the matter no more. Bestest best friends again.
So we are back. Braiding each other's hair, passing notes in Social studies, and delivering those hard to find books through the inter-library loan system. And I have learned an important lesson about not being overly defensive, and checking my books carefully before returning them, and keeping loaned books at least two feet off the floor so kitties can't get to them.
Cue the Queen music.
And then you have to slink in and eat some crow and pay $30 for a book covered in grossness?
Yeah, me too.
See, I've been having a fight with my local library. (It pains me to even type that because the library and I are BFFs, and up until now we've been seeing each other several times a week, and all the librarians and checkout volunteers know me by name and what kind of reading kick I've been on lately. And it's been years of tea parties and sleepovers and slow-motion romping through daisies together while the Best Friend song from Queen plays in the background). But there comes a time in every friendship where someone gets mad over a misunderstanding (or a little mysterious yellow stuff) and those friends quit speaking for a while.
It all started innocently enough. I checked out a book. I read said book. I returned said book along with several other books through the after-hours book drop. Life was good. But then! Then! One day out of the blue, my BFF library sent me a nasty note. And it said that I had grievously slighted them by spilling "yellow stuff" all over a book and now it was ruined and I owed them $30 for a new book or they wouldn't be my bestest friend anymore SO THERE!
And I, reacting a bit strongly to the idea of my library breaking up with me over a horribly false accusation, called them up to be like, "What yellow stuff!?! I didn't spill any yellow stuff on any book! I would never do that to a book! You're a dirty dirty fibber, and I don't want to be friends with dirty fibbers SO THERE!"
And then the library yelled "Fine!" and I yelled "Fine!" and then we both slammed some doors and went home to play by ourselves. (Metaphorically speaking anyway...in actuality, the library and I were both professional adults where I exclaimed confused but polite dismay and the library professed apologetic but polite insistence and we were both very polite about the whole thing. But the underlying feeling of door slamming was there).
In my head, "yellow stuff" looked like French's mustard, which I do not eat, so why would I smear it all over a book? Why would the library claim such lies about me? Actually, it wouldn't surprise me at all if it was actually the library's fault! They're trying to set me up! I left the book safely in the book drop. Maybe some grubby-handed child visited the library and was playing in the book drop receptacle! Maybe some careless volunteer was eating a mustard sandwich on rye while checking in books and got some on the cover! Formally-bff library is trying to make me the fall guy!
So I sat in my room alone for a few days, feeling abused and missing the library terribly but refusing to admit it, and the library did the same. (Oh sure, they have other patrons, but none of them are BFFs like me). And for a while I tried to make new friends with Borders and Barnes and Noble, but they were more interested in a commercial relationship with me rather than one where they let me read their books for free. And it was horribly lonely.
Then one day a few days later, the library left a message on my answering machine, cautiously suggesting that I come in and see mysterious yellow stuff for myself. It wasn't exactly an overture of friendship, mind you, but at this point I was desperate to see them again, so I agreed.
Driving over, I told myself that if the library admitted that they were wrong, I would take them back graciously. If I told them that I had nothing to do with the yellow stuff and they believed me, then we would put this whole ugly mess behind us. If they said they were sorry and they wanted to be my friend again, I would immediately check out 8 books and make us matching "Friends forever" bracelets. Overall, I was feeling very benevolent and forgiving about the whole thing.
And then I saw the "yellow stuff" they were talking about.
Which sucked, because I recognized it instantly.
And it meant that I was 100% in the wrong, and the library was right.
Darnit.
It was not French's mustard. It was a little thing we like to call kitty barf. And since the library does not have any cats, it was a pretty safe bet that it came from my house, where there are several little furry barf factories of the feline persuasion running amok and having full access to library books. I have no idea why I didn't see it when I scooped the books up to return them, but I didn't. And so I gave the library a hairball-covered book. Mea culpa.
Of course, there was nothing to do after that other than to hang my head and apologize profusely while paying the library $30 for their new book. I am a bad book renter. I do not have the proper respect for the written word. I let my four-legged charges abuse a Times best-seller. I do not deserve to be the library's friend.
The library, however, would hear none of it. (Oh, they still took my $30, but there was no reason to beat myself up over it). These things happen, they said! Who can control kitty barf, they said! Of course you are forgiven! The library has a new book, and I have a commemorative barf-covered one. We shall speak of the matter no more. Bestest best friends again.
So we are back. Braiding each other's hair, passing notes in Social studies, and delivering those hard to find books through the inter-library loan system. And I have learned an important lesson about not being overly defensive, and checking my books carefully before returning them, and keeping loaned books at least two feet off the floor so kitties can't get to them.
Cue the Queen music.
7/8/10
Foot Loose
So I'm currently typing this with one foot all bandaged and hiked up on the desk beside me because two days ago I fell getting out of the car. (Yes Interpeeps. I am a complete and total klutz. 30 years and I still have not mastered the art of walking).
I'm not really sure what happened other than we had just pulled into the driveway, having completed the 7 hour drive back from Savannah, and (unbeknownst to me) somewhere along I-75 my foot had fallen asleep. Only it wasn't the whole pins and needles tingly asleep, it was the "numb from mid-calf down and possesses no feeling (and therefore no stability) whatsoever" asleep. The foot version of a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale.
Which, if you're wondering, doesn't hold up very well when you're trying to walk.
I made it approximately one and a half steps when my ankle rolled, and I suddenly found myself walking on the top of my foot, which contains all those pesky little bones and tendons and whatnot that hold your toes on but are not really designed to support a hundred and cough cough pounds of weight. So naturally, my foot lodged an official complaint with the body parts union and dumped my butt on the ground.
Which is where Tony found me a few minutes later, sprawled out in a heap in the driveway with my purse and travel neck pillow and the leftover bag of trash from the Hardees we stopped at somewhere around Dalton, screaming not-nice words at the top of my lungs and trying not to cry in front of the neighbors.
Grace under pressure, that's me.
Eventually Tony had to carry me inside piggy back style (not as sexy as the two arm cradle, mind you, but better than the over-the-shoulder fireman's carry) because traitorous said foot no longer felt it necessary to support my weight, which makes walking slightly impossible. He wanted to go to the doctor to get it looked at, but I didn't think it was broken, so I was all for skipping the going to the doctor part. (Then again, I'm always for skipping the going to the doctor part, and we all know how well that's worked out for me in the past). I had him convinced that it wasn't worth the doctor's time right up until he caught me crawling to the bathroom that evening, foot dragging uselessly behind. Then he decided that maybe we should maybe get an x-ray or two:
Doctor: What happened?
Me: Ninja attack.
Doctor: ...
Me: Vicious ones.
Doctor: ...
Me: About 50 of them.
Doctor: Nurse! I'm going to need to see a brain scan done too!
(I tell you, some people in the medical field have no sense of humor. What ever happened to the whole "laughter is the best medicine" thing?)
Ninjas aside, x-rays revealed that it's just a really bad sprain of the ankle and the tendons that hold the bones on the top of my foot together. Unfortunately, there's not really much you can do for a sprain other than ice it and keep it elevated and try to dull the pain while you wait for traitorous foot to (literally) start pulling its weight again. But the good news?
* Nothing broke, so no hobbling around for 6 weeks in a walking boot (the height of fashion)
* The pain pills that the doctor gave me, while not exactly on the level of singing pink elephants, are enough to make me be all, "Foot? What foot?"
* I had just had a fresh pedi so at least my toenails were looking their best for the radiologist.
Silver lining, my friends. It's all you can hope for. So to recap: The foot and I are still not on speaking terms with each other, I have perfected a very complex limp-crawl-drag that I predict will very soon become the latest dance craze, and in the future, when ruthlessly dispatching angry roving gangs of vicious ninjas, remember to protect your feet.
I'm not really sure what happened other than we had just pulled into the driveway, having completed the 7 hour drive back from Savannah, and (unbeknownst to me) somewhere along I-75 my foot had fallen asleep. Only it wasn't the whole pins and needles tingly asleep, it was the "numb from mid-calf down and possesses no feeling (and therefore no stability) whatsoever" asleep. The foot version of a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale.
Which, if you're wondering, doesn't hold up very well when you're trying to walk.
I made it approximately one and a half steps when my ankle rolled, and I suddenly found myself walking on the top of my foot, which contains all those pesky little bones and tendons and whatnot that hold your toes on but are not really designed to support a hundred and cough cough pounds of weight. So naturally, my foot lodged an official complaint with the body parts union and dumped my butt on the ground.
Which is where Tony found me a few minutes later, sprawled out in a heap in the driveway with my purse and travel neck pillow and the leftover bag of trash from the Hardees we stopped at somewhere around Dalton, screaming not-nice words at the top of my lungs and trying not to cry in front of the neighbors.
Grace under pressure, that's me.
Eventually Tony had to carry me inside piggy back style (not as sexy as the two arm cradle, mind you, but better than the over-the-shoulder fireman's carry) because traitorous said foot no longer felt it necessary to support my weight, which makes walking slightly impossible. He wanted to go to the doctor to get it looked at, but I didn't think it was broken, so I was all for skipping the going to the doctor part. (Then again, I'm always for skipping the going to the doctor part, and we all know how well that's worked out for me in the past). I had him convinced that it wasn't worth the doctor's time right up until he caught me crawling to the bathroom that evening, foot dragging uselessly behind. Then he decided that maybe we should maybe get an x-ray or two:
Doctor: What happened?
Me: Ninja attack.
Doctor: ...
Me: Vicious ones.
Doctor: ...
Me: About 50 of them.
Doctor: Nurse! I'm going to need to see a brain scan done too!
(I tell you, some people in the medical field have no sense of humor. What ever happened to the whole "laughter is the best medicine" thing?)
Ninjas aside, x-rays revealed that it's just a really bad sprain of the ankle and the tendons that hold the bones on the top of my foot together. Unfortunately, there's not really much you can do for a sprain other than ice it and keep it elevated and try to dull the pain while you wait for traitorous foot to (literally) start pulling its weight again. But the good news?
* Nothing broke, so no hobbling around for 6 weeks in a walking boot (the height of fashion)
* The pain pills that the doctor gave me, while not exactly on the level of singing pink elephants, are enough to make me be all, "Foot? What foot?"
* I had just had a fresh pedi so at least my toenails were looking their best for the radiologist.
Silver lining, my friends. It's all you can hope for. So to recap: The foot and I are still not on speaking terms with each other, I have perfected a very complex limp-crawl-drag that I predict will very soon become the latest dance craze, and in the future, when ruthlessly dispatching angry roving gangs of vicious ninjas, remember to protect your feet.
5/12/10
Lady Issues
Warning: Today we're whining about sharing details of a most personal and slightly unpleasant nature. Male readers and those uncomfortable with the idea of "Aunt Flo" may want to look away now.
Oh Interpeeps. It is not the best of days for me. I am in the midst of a full blown attack of what Tony refers to as my "lady issues". And not the chocolate-craving, mood-swinging, crying-over-Hallmark-commercials (darn you mother's day commercial where the mom keeps all of the cards her daughter has ever given her!), but the more messy and less fun laying-on-the-floor-in-the-fetal-position-while-being-stabbed-in-the-abdomen-with-a-knife-from-the-insides issues.
Yes, it is true. My uterus hates me.
You know those women on the Kotex commercials who are smiling and laughing and going out with friends and playing tennis because they're not going to let their periods interfere with their lives? I loathe them. With every fiber of my being, I loathe them. Because I will not ever be one of those women. Instead, I am one of those lucky women who are cursed with an even more cursed version of the curse. Curse to the nth power. Those women have maybe three light days with no cramping or bloating or back pain and have been known to say things like, "Sometimes I forget that I'm even having my period!" (Oh it makes me want to smack them. Just climb up from my fetal position in the floor with my heating pad and my prescription pain pills and my ultra-heavy nighttime flow 360 degree super-absorbency protection and backup airplane wing coverage and beat that smug reproductive superiority out of them).
Oh sweet mercy! It's time for more Extra-strength Midol. Hang on.
I tell you Interpeeps, it's enough to make you wish you were a man. Or post-menopausal. Or both. And while my lady doctor assures me that there is physically wrong with me other than the fact that I'm on the "heavy end of normal", mother nature continues to donkey kick me in the ovaries for the first 5 days of each 28 day rotation. (Or 26 days, or 34 days, or even 42 days, because in addition to repeatedly taking a 2x4 to the gut, mother nature also likes to surprise me...makes the ambush more fun when you can't anticipate it).
When I die, God and I are having a sit-down about this, because it is a major design flaw. Really, I'm not sure what He could possibly have been thinking. (Unless of course it is just me, and the rest of you really are all Kotex commercial women with the laughing and the clubbing and the tennis playing and not a care in the world. In which case I will feel thoroughly cheesed off, because that is incredibly not fair). My misery? It craves your company, so even if you are one of those perky carefree women (please know that I hate you), I would like you to lie and tell me that of course you understand, you are right here suffering along with me in that you're bloated like a three day old raccoon at the side of the highway and that yes, your cramps could drop an elephant also.
And then somebody get me some chocolate.
Oh Interpeeps. It is not the best of days for me. I am in the midst of a full blown attack of what Tony refers to as my "lady issues". And not the chocolate-craving, mood-swinging, crying-over-Hallmark-commercials (darn you mother's day commercial where the mom keeps all of the cards her daughter has ever given her!), but the more messy and less fun laying-on-the-floor-in-the-fetal-position-while-being-stabbed-in-the-abdomen-with-a-knife-from-the-insides issues.
Yes, it is true. My uterus hates me.
You know those women on the Kotex commercials who are smiling and laughing and going out with friends and playing tennis because they're not going to let their periods interfere with their lives? I loathe them. With every fiber of my being, I loathe them. Because I will not ever be one of those women. Instead, I am one of those lucky women who are cursed with an even more cursed version of the curse. Curse to the nth power. Those women have maybe three light days with no cramping or bloating or back pain and have been known to say things like, "Sometimes I forget that I'm even having my period!" (Oh it makes me want to smack them. Just climb up from my fetal position in the floor with my heating pad and my prescription pain pills and my ultra-heavy nighttime flow 360 degree super-absorbency protection and backup airplane wing coverage and beat that smug reproductive superiority out of them).
Oh sweet mercy! It's time for more Extra-strength Midol. Hang on.
I tell you Interpeeps, it's enough to make you wish you were a man. Or post-menopausal. Or both. And while my lady doctor assures me that there is physically wrong with me other than the fact that I'm on the "heavy end of normal", mother nature continues to donkey kick me in the ovaries for the first 5 days of each 28 day rotation. (Or 26 days, or 34 days, or even 42 days, because in addition to repeatedly taking a 2x4 to the gut, mother nature also likes to surprise me...makes the ambush more fun when you can't anticipate it).
When I die, God and I are having a sit-down about this, because it is a major design flaw. Really, I'm not sure what He could possibly have been thinking. (Unless of course it is just me, and the rest of you really are all Kotex commercial women with the laughing and the clubbing and the tennis playing and not a care in the world. In which case I will feel thoroughly cheesed off, because that is incredibly not fair). My misery? It craves your company, so even if you are one of those perky carefree women (please know that I hate you), I would like you to lie and tell me that of course you understand, you are right here suffering along with me in that you're bloated like a three day old raccoon at the side of the highway and that yes, your cramps could drop an elephant also.
And then somebody get me some chocolate.
3/30/10
The April Gym/Exercise/Put-Down-That-Cookie Challenge
I've been trying to decide whether or not to do this, and eventually I was like, "Why not? We're all friends here, right?"
Right?
I mean, I may have never physically met most of you, but that doesn't mean that I don't trust you to have my back, cause you're my homies, and that's just how we roll, right? Word to your mother and all, although I'm not quite sure what that means.
Anyway.
Here's the thing: My gym has launched its April Challenge initiative, and this year I'm going to do it. And because things like self-discipline and accountability fly right out the window as soon as a fresh tube of cookie dough gets opened, I'm going to tell you guys that I'm doing it so that two weeks down the road, I won't all be like, "Gym Challenge? Are you sure? You must have me confused with someone else...probably someone who wouldn't eat this second piece of cake".
Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to do a major overhaul or anything. I've been going to the gym for a couple of years and I generally like the shape I'm in. It's just that sometimes I tend to...well, slack off. With the workouts. And the cardio. And the cookie vigilance.
But the April Challenge is all about pushing yourself, and accomplishing new goals, and not gorging oneself on Easter candy, so here we go.
This month I will:
And just so you know that I'm serious, this is the before picture, which I am posting as a comparison for the end of the month. (I'm not sure if we will be able to tell a difference after 30 days, but I'm hoping so). If you want, feel free to do the April Challenge with me. Your gym doesn't have to be doing it...you can just piggyback onto my Challenge virtually. Just pick out some exercise goals and spend 30 days trying to hit them. Sound good? Good. It starts April 1, which means you have one day to finish off that bag of potato chips.
The Before Picture (not bad, but there's always room for improvement, right?)
I'm also going to admit that before I let Tony take the picture, I was all, "Wait! I need to put on some lipstick!" and he was like, "For a exercise photo?". Which just goes to show that men do not understand the lengths one most go to to psych oneself up into posting a picture of themselves on the Internet wearing a sports bra and yoga pants. I don't care what you look like.
Right?
I mean, I may have never physically met most of you, but that doesn't mean that I don't trust you to have my back, cause you're my homies, and that's just how we roll, right? Word to your mother and all, although I'm not quite sure what that means.
Anyway.
Here's the thing: My gym has launched its April Challenge initiative, and this year I'm going to do it. And because things like self-discipline and accountability fly right out the window as soon as a fresh tube of cookie dough gets opened, I'm going to tell you guys that I'm doing it so that two weeks down the road, I won't all be like, "Gym Challenge? Are you sure? You must have me confused with someone else...probably someone who wouldn't eat this second piece of cake".
Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to do a major overhaul or anything. I've been going to the gym for a couple of years and I generally like the shape I'm in. It's just that sometimes I tend to...well, slack off. With the workouts. And the cardio. And the cookie vigilance.
But the April Challenge is all about pushing yourself, and accomplishing new goals, and not gorging oneself on Easter candy, so here we go.
This month I will:
- Do my cardio classes on Tuesday and Thursday and not skip them for any reason other than death.
- Do the ENTIRE ab workout DVD and not give up 15 minutes into it and watch the rest of it in fast forward while I sit on the couch.
- Work up to doing 20 minutes on the tread wall at 90 degrees. (At the moment it is killing me to do 10 minutes).
- Keep my elliptical pace above 130, except for cool downs.
- Not buy lots of Easter chocolate just because it is there and on sale.
- Not eat dessert more than
oncetwice a week.
And just so you know that I'm serious, this is the before picture, which I am posting as a comparison for the end of the month. (I'm not sure if we will be able to tell a difference after 30 days, but I'm hoping so). If you want, feel free to do the April Challenge with me. Your gym doesn't have to be doing it...you can just piggyback onto my Challenge virtually. Just pick out some exercise goals and spend 30 days trying to hit them. Sound good? Good. It starts April 1, which means you have one day to finish off that bag of potato chips.
The Before Picture (not bad, but there's always room for improvement, right?)
I'm also going to admit that before I let Tony take the picture, I was all, "Wait! I need to put on some lipstick!" and he was like, "For a exercise photo?". Which just goes to show that men do not understand the lengths one most go to to psych oneself up into posting a picture of themselves on the Internet wearing a sports bra and yoga pants. I don't care what you look like.
2/15/10
Bugs, Bruises and Banana Bread
Scene: Late afternoon. Our lovable heroine is in the office, two cats wedged onto her lap, doing very important and possibly world-changing work in front of the computer (read: looking for a new recipe for banana muffins since banana bread is my holy grail of baking and my latest recipe is okay and all, but I'm not convinced that there isn't one out there that is absolutely TO DIE FOR). There is a third cat sitting next to the keyboard, and a fourth on the floor next to the chair.
The cats are staring at me. (They are under the mistaken impression that if they hang around long enough, it will miraculously become cat treat time. Therefore, they have spent the day making pests of themselves by constantly being on-lap and underfoot). I, however, am on a treat quest of my own, which will hopefully take the form of some banana bread goodness. I found a nice little recipe that looked promising (and with a crumble topping too!) and only included normal-sounding ingredients that I already had on-hand, which is a definite plus. (You wouldn't believe some of the crazy stuff people put into their banana bread! Cream of tartar? Really?)
Anyway, I decide to give this particular recipe a try, so I hit the print button and the printer on the edge of the desk rumbled to life. Only instead of printing out my lovely banana bread instructions, the printer shoots out this giant horrible insect creature, which flies directly at my head and TRIES TO KILL ME. (It all happened really fast, but I swear I could see the murderous loathing in its little buggy eyes). And while it's launching a rather successful aerial attack, I'm flailing around trying to fend it off, (it hit my hand! It hit my hand! Ew! Ew! Ewwww!) and the cats are under the impression that all this activity is somehow meant for them. So Mason, (who was sitting next to the keyboard during this vicious and completely unprovoked attack) decides to try to get into my lap where Dixon and Sebastian ALREADY ARE, and the weight of three large cats plus my flailing is enough to unbalance the chair to the point that we tip one way and the roll-y casters go the other.
You know how they say that during an accident everything seems to go in super slow motion? Totally happened here. It's like I was outside my body, watching the whole thing as we balanced precariously on the edge of one caster. My eyes were as big as saucers, the cats were hanging on for dear life, my arms were pinwheeling in frantic slow motion, and over it all you could hear the bug laughing this high-pitched evil bug laugh from somewhere next to my right ear. We balanced like that just long enough for me to completely register how much this next part was going to suck, and then the caster tipped.
The crash was epic! Not only did we hit the floor, but we hit and bounced. (The only thing missing was the obligatory end-of-crash burst into flames sequence. And I'm sure we totally would have managed that too if the chair had been just a little higher) . My hand caught the edge of the keyboard on the way down, so half of the stuff on the desk ended up coming down with us. I landed half on the chair and half on a cat scratching post (not my first choice in the list of things I'd pick to break my fall), the keyboard caught me on the shoulder, and 45lbs of panicked cat landed safely but none too softly on my stomach...claws anchored into my flesh for increased stability. The whole ordeal knocked the wind out of me, so as four cats (spooked into puffing up 10 times their normal size) streaked out of the room and under the master bed for safety, the only thing I could do was wheeze out, "Wait! You're pest control! Who's going to catch the bug, you traitors!?!"
The bug was discovered laughing his head off a few minutes after I was able to pick my bruised and battered body up off of the floor. Since my pest eradication squad was still hunkered under the bed and refusing to come out (the wusses), I had no choice but to vacate the office until Tony could get home and take care of the intruder. (Don't look at me like that. It was HUGE! Like, flying monkey huge! You would have been scared too).
Also? The banana bread recipe has been exchanged for one regarding rum cake. After all that, I think I need the alcohol.
The cats are staring at me. (They are under the mistaken impression that if they hang around long enough, it will miraculously become cat treat time. Therefore, they have spent the day making pests of themselves by constantly being on-lap and underfoot). I, however, am on a treat quest of my own, which will hopefully take the form of some banana bread goodness. I found a nice little recipe that looked promising (and with a crumble topping too!) and only included normal-sounding ingredients that I already had on-hand, which is a definite plus. (You wouldn't believe some of the crazy stuff people put into their banana bread! Cream of tartar? Really?)
Anyway, I decide to give this particular recipe a try, so I hit the print button and the printer on the edge of the desk rumbled to life. Only instead of printing out my lovely banana bread instructions, the printer shoots out this giant horrible insect creature, which flies directly at my head and TRIES TO KILL ME. (It all happened really fast, but I swear I could see the murderous loathing in its little buggy eyes). And while it's launching a rather successful aerial attack, I'm flailing around trying to fend it off, (it hit my hand! It hit my hand! Ew! Ew! Ewwww!) and the cats are under the impression that all this activity is somehow meant for them. So Mason, (who was sitting next to the keyboard during this vicious and completely unprovoked attack) decides to try to get into my lap where Dixon and Sebastian ALREADY ARE, and the weight of three large cats plus my flailing is enough to unbalance the chair to the point that we tip one way and the roll-y casters go the other.
You know how they say that during an accident everything seems to go in super slow motion? Totally happened here. It's like I was outside my body, watching the whole thing as we balanced precariously on the edge of one caster. My eyes were as big as saucers, the cats were hanging on for dear life, my arms were pinwheeling in frantic slow motion, and over it all you could hear the bug laughing this high-pitched evil bug laugh from somewhere next to my right ear. We balanced like that just long enough for me to completely register how much this next part was going to suck, and then the caster tipped.
The crash was epic! Not only did we hit the floor, but we hit and bounced. (The only thing missing was the obligatory end-of-crash burst into flames sequence. And I'm sure we totally would have managed that too if the chair had been just a little higher) . My hand caught the edge of the keyboard on the way down, so half of the stuff on the desk ended up coming down with us. I landed half on the chair and half on a cat scratching post (not my first choice in the list of things I'd pick to break my fall), the keyboard caught me on the shoulder, and 45lbs of panicked cat landed safely but none too softly on my stomach...claws anchored into my flesh for increased stability. The whole ordeal knocked the wind out of me, so as four cats (spooked into puffing up 10 times their normal size) streaked out of the room and under the master bed for safety, the only thing I could do was wheeze out, "Wait! You're pest control! Who's going to catch the bug, you traitors!?!"
The bug was discovered laughing his head off a few minutes after I was able to pick my bruised and battered body up off of the floor. Since my pest eradication squad was still hunkered under the bed and refusing to come out (the wusses), I had no choice but to vacate the office until Tony could get home and take care of the intruder. (Don't look at me like that. It was HUGE! Like, flying monkey huge! You would have been scared too).
Also? The banana bread recipe has been exchanged for one regarding rum cake. After all that, I think I need the alcohol.
1/17/10
If Crying Was an Olympic Sport...
I'm not much of a cryer. Not at weddings. Not even really at funerals. It's not something that I generally do. I'm Ms. Steady Emotions, remember? Crying isn't really my bag.
There is, however, one exception.
The Olympics. I bawl over the Olympics. There's just something about all the athletes' stories of challenge and strength and discipline that gets me Every. Single. Time. I cry when they win. I cry when they lose. I cry for the favorites. I cry for the underdogs. I cry when they're all standing there on the little podium and the winning national anthem is played...even when it isn't my country's anthem.
So I knew I was in trouble when Tony and I were watching TV today and the following commercial came on:
Commercial announcer: So-and-so speed skater found out that his sister Jane had died moments before his race.
Me: Oh! That's so sad! What lousy timing!
Announcer: So he promised her that he'd win the gold.
Me: (Tears welling). He's going to win the gold for his dead sister!
Tony: (not really paying attention and hasn't figured out yet what's going on) Babe? You okay?
Announcer: Until he fell and lost.
Tony: Babe?
Me: (with tears falling freely now as the screen shows the guy sitting on the ice with his head in his hands) He...*sniffle*...he...*sniffle*...FELL DOWN!
Tony: (confused) Well...yeah. He fell down and lost like, three different times.
Me: (really getting going now) But he was...*sniff*...trying to...*sniff*...win for his...*sniff*...DEAD SISTER! (bawling).
Announcer: Until six years later, when he finally won the gold...
Tony: (alarmed now because I've managed to achieve full meltdown in less than 3.7 seconds) It's okay, sweetheart. It's just a commercial.
Announcer: ...and was able to take his victory lap with his daughter...
Me: (wiping eyes as shot of skater holding a toddler fills the screen) Yeah...*sniff*...I'm okay....*sniff*...I'm fine now. He got to win and skate with his daugh-
Announcer: ...Jane.
Me: (Blubbering uncontrollably). Waaaaaaaaaaaa!
Tony: (Wondering if it's not too late to trade me in for the SANE model). It's going to be a long couple of months leading up to the Olympics, isn't it?
Yes dear, yes it is. You might as well get used to it. I am Olympically unstable.
(The really sad part is that after I had managed to get myself under control and watch the next two normal, non-Olympic commercials, that exact same commercial came on again! And I thought, oh, I've got this now. I'm prepared for it now. Wrong! I cried over the EXACT. SAME. COMMERCIAL not one minute later! I'm losing all credibility as a non-cryer...and a sane person).
Click here to comment-all the cool kids are doing it.
There is, however, one exception.
The Olympics. I bawl over the Olympics. There's just something about all the athletes' stories of challenge and strength and discipline that gets me Every. Single. Time. I cry when they win. I cry when they lose. I cry for the favorites. I cry for the underdogs. I cry when they're all standing there on the little podium and the winning national anthem is played...even when it isn't my country's anthem.
So I knew I was in trouble when Tony and I were watching TV today and the following commercial came on:
Commercial announcer: So-and-so speed skater found out that his sister Jane had died moments before his race.
Me: Oh! That's so sad! What lousy timing!
Announcer: So he promised her that he'd win the gold.
Me: (Tears welling). He's going to win the gold for his dead sister!
Tony: (not really paying attention and hasn't figured out yet what's going on) Babe? You okay?
Announcer: Until he fell and lost.
Tony: Babe?
Me: (with tears falling freely now as the screen shows the guy sitting on the ice with his head in his hands) He...*sniffle*...he...*sniffle*...FELL DOWN!
Tony: (confused) Well...yeah. He fell down and lost like, three different times.
Me: (really getting going now) But he was...*sniff*...trying to...*sniff*...win for his...*sniff*...DEAD SISTER! (bawling).
Announcer: Until six years later, when he finally won the gold...
Tony: (alarmed now because I've managed to achieve full meltdown in less than 3.7 seconds) It's okay, sweetheart. It's just a commercial.
Announcer: ...and was able to take his victory lap with his daughter...
Me: (wiping eyes as shot of skater holding a toddler fills the screen) Yeah...*sniff*...I'm okay....*sniff*...I'm fine now. He got to win and skate with his daugh-
Announcer: ...Jane.
Me: (Blubbering uncontrollably). Waaaaaaaaaaaa!
Tony: (Wondering if it's not too late to trade me in for the SANE model). It's going to be a long couple of months leading up to the Olympics, isn't it?
Yes dear, yes it is. You might as well get used to it. I am Olympically unstable.
(The really sad part is that after I had managed to get myself under control and watch the next two normal, non-Olympic commercials, that exact same commercial came on again! And I thought, oh, I've got this now. I'm prepared for it now. Wrong! I cried over the EXACT. SAME. COMMERCIAL not one minute later! I'm losing all credibility as a non-cryer...and a sane person).
Click here to comment-all the cool kids are doing it.
9/15/09
On Alarms
I set the house alarm off today. Normally, I'm pretty good about it, but every now and then I forget that it's on and try to open the back door before disarming it. This, as you may well guess, creates a lovely 120 decibel WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP sound that scatters cats, startles the neighbors, and makes me yell profanity as I trip over furniture in my haste to get over to the control panel to turn it off. (Sometimes, if it's early in the morning and I'm not 100% awake yet, I have the added benefit of almost peeing on myself. It hasn't happened yet, but I've come close a couple of times).
Anyway, 99 times out of a hundred, I remember to punch in the code first, but today I was distracted with my lecture to the esteemed Ms. Bella about possibly making better choices regarding inner-household cat relationships, and I just went and threw open the door without thinking about it. Sure enough, the alarm went off, I slammed the door (too late now!), yelled a not nice word, tripped over the freaked out cat, crashed into the kitchen chairs, stubbed my toe, yelled another not nice word, limped over to the control panel in the living room and punched in our code. Then, grabbing a paper towel to staunch the bleeding from the missing toe that was back in the kitchen where I'd left it wrapped around the base of the chair leg, I hobbled over to wait by the phone for the call.
(Our alarm is monitored by one of those 24/7 companies who calls to make sure that you're just a moron who sets off her alarm by accident as opposed to a moron who is being robbed at gunpoint. The way it works is that the alarm goes off, they call you to make sure you're okay and to get your secret password, and then have a good laugh at your expense later in the break room. The other alternative is that they call, you don't answer or you give them the wrong password, they call the cops, and then they and the cops laugh at you later from their respective break rooms).
It always takes the alarm company a few minutes to call. I know this, but I still stand there by the phone, waiting for it to ring and imagining them replaying the taped conversation during the annual Christmas Party "Best of" blooper section. ("Yes, yes, it's me...no, I'm fine...false alarm on the deranged ax murderers...yes, I forgot and opened the back door again...yes, again...I'm sorry.") And as much as I enjoy the thought of the alarm company snickering at me whenever I set the alarm off by accident, that's nothing compared to my paranoia about forgetting security password.
The longer it takes for the phone to ring, the more convinced I become that I'm going to accidentally give the alarm company the wrong password. I don't know why. It's not like it's a hard password to remember, or that we have 5 billion different passwords and I might give them the wrong one. In fact, it's been the same password for years. Not to mention I'm the one who picked it out. And it's not like Tony is going to secretly call them up and change the password and not tell me. But as the seconds tick by, I find myself going, Is that it? That's it, right? Do I have time to call Tony and confirm it? No, if they call and the line is busy, they'll think there's a problem. That IS the password, right? Is it? IS IT?!? Oh no, what if I give them the wrong password and they think I'm being held against my will and this is a secret cry for help and they deploy the SWAT team and the FBI and Homeland Security and they all come roaring up in their emergency vehicles with the sirens and the flashing lights and all the neighbors crowd around only to find out that nothing's wrong except for the fact that I'm a complete and total doofus? What if they fine me for taking up valuable resources? What if they arrest me and drag me off to jail for calling in a false report? What if all the ax murderers who couldn't get into my house because of the alarm are just waiting for me there in the prison? What if-
What's that commercial for the alarm company say? They give you peace of mind?
Anyway, 99 times out of a hundred, I remember to punch in the code first, but today I was distracted with my lecture to the esteemed Ms. Bella about possibly making better choices regarding inner-household cat relationships, and I just went and threw open the door without thinking about it. Sure enough, the alarm went off, I slammed the door (too late now!), yelled a not nice word, tripped over the freaked out cat, crashed into the kitchen chairs, stubbed my toe, yelled another not nice word, limped over to the control panel in the living room and punched in our code. Then, grabbing a paper towel to staunch the bleeding from the missing toe that was back in the kitchen where I'd left it wrapped around the base of the chair leg, I hobbled over to wait by the phone for the call.
(Our alarm is monitored by one of those 24/7 companies who calls to make sure that you're just a moron who sets off her alarm by accident as opposed to a moron who is being robbed at gunpoint. The way it works is that the alarm goes off, they call you to make sure you're okay and to get your secret password, and then have a good laugh at your expense later in the break room. The other alternative is that they call, you don't answer or you give them the wrong password, they call the cops, and then they and the cops laugh at you later from their respective break rooms).
It always takes the alarm company a few minutes to call. I know this, but I still stand there by the phone, waiting for it to ring and imagining them replaying the taped conversation during the annual Christmas Party "Best of" blooper section. ("Yes, yes, it's me...no, I'm fine...false alarm on the deranged ax murderers...yes, I forgot and opened the back door again...yes, again...I'm sorry.") And as much as I enjoy the thought of the alarm company snickering at me whenever I set the alarm off by accident, that's nothing compared to my paranoia about forgetting security password.
The longer it takes for the phone to ring, the more convinced I become that I'm going to accidentally give the alarm company the wrong password. I don't know why. It's not like it's a hard password to remember, or that we have 5 billion different passwords and I might give them the wrong one. In fact, it's been the same password for years. Not to mention I'm the one who picked it out. And it's not like Tony is going to secretly call them up and change the password and not tell me. But as the seconds tick by, I find myself going, Is that it? That's it, right? Do I have time to call Tony and confirm it? No, if they call and the line is busy, they'll think there's a problem. That IS the password, right? Is it? IS IT?!? Oh no, what if I give them the wrong password and they think I'm being held against my will and this is a secret cry for help and they deploy the SWAT team and the FBI and Homeland Security and they all come roaring up in their emergency vehicles with the sirens and the flashing lights and all the neighbors crowd around only to find out that nothing's wrong except for the fact that I'm a complete and total doofus? What if they fine me for taking up valuable resources? What if they arrest me and drag me off to jail for calling in a false report? What if all the ax murderers who couldn't get into my house because of the alarm are just waiting for me there in the prison? What if-
What's that commercial for the alarm company say? They give you peace of mind?
1/30/09
Flashback Friday: High School Hair
It's Flashback Friday over at My Tiny Kingdom, and I figure nothing says flashback like pulling out the old high school yearbooks. These are scanned straight out of my yearbooks, so ya'll excuse the poor quality.
You'll notice each photo has a single common denominator, and that is my giant, all-encompassing hair. Nobody does big hair like I do. I'd like to claim that it was the 80's and that I was trying to go for the big hair look, but alas, this was the late 90's and my fluffy yearbook 'do was AFTER flat ironing and roughly 6 gallons of anti-frizz serum. And still the hair could not be tamed.
Puberty was not my friend, ya'll.
Here I am as a freshman in high school, fresh-faced and eager to begin my journey. It was natural to be optimistic; Up until this point, the hair had slept, dormant.
By the time I was a junior, my hair was completely out of control and was actually breaking the boundaries of the photo and creeping into neighboring frames. This was the year that the guys who sat behind me in English stuck pens and pencils into my hair to see how many they could get to stay. I think the record was something like 16 pencils and a TI-85 graphing calculator. (I'm serious).
At last, senior year. I have completely surrendered and relinquished all control to the hair, and it has, in its infinite hair wisdom, become curly. Together, it and I have come to somewhat of a compromise. I quit trying to beat it into straight submission and let it embrace it's natural curliness and, in turn, it has quit frizzing out and eating other classmates. And they say you don't learn anything useful in high school.
You'll notice each photo has a single common denominator, and that is my giant, all-encompassing hair. Nobody does big hair like I do. I'd like to claim that it was the 80's and that I was trying to go for the big hair look, but alas, this was the late 90's and my fluffy yearbook 'do was AFTER flat ironing and roughly 6 gallons of anti-frizz serum. And still the hair could not be tamed.
Puberty was not my friend, ya'll.
Here I am as a freshman in high school, fresh-faced and eager to begin my journey. It was natural to be optimistic; Up until this point, the hair had slept, dormant.
By the time I was a sophomore, I had put away my child-like wonder and enthusiasm and adopted a more worldly outlook. The hair also exerted itself by taking over my shoulders.
By the time I was a junior, my hair was completely out of control and was actually breaking the boundaries of the photo and creeping into neighboring frames. This was the year that the guys who sat behind me in English stuck pens and pencils into my hair to see how many they could get to stay. I think the record was something like 16 pencils and a TI-85 graphing calculator. (I'm serious).At last, senior year. I have completely surrendered and relinquished all control to the hair, and it has, in its infinite hair wisdom, become curly. Together, it and I have come to somewhat of a compromise. I quit trying to beat it into straight submission and let it embrace it's natural curliness and, in turn, it has quit frizzing out and eating other classmates. And they say you don't learn anything useful in high school.***Flashback Friday Bonus picture! While digging around for my senior class photo, I came across a picture of the hubby back when he was in high school. So as a special treat...behold! The hubby! Isn't he a total hottie?
12/30/08
The Demise of the Horn Monster
You’ll be happy to know that the horn monster has been (hopefully) eradicated. I took my car into the dealership and explained the problem. They told me that it would take about 40 minutes to fix, so I just sat in the little poorly-lit waiting room and tried to ignore the out of date copies of People Magazine and reruns of Judge Judy blasting from the TV bolted to the wall. The good news is that they couldn’t claim that there wasn’t anything wrong with my horn because even Her Honor’s bickering with the defendant over who agreed to pay for the plaintiff’s boob job last January couldn’t drown out the uninterrupted horn blaring from the service bay, At least the horn monster was making his presence known.
About thirty minutes AFTER the 40 minutes they promised me, a guy came in to tell me that I needed a new horn pad because “By durn! That other one was really stuck!” The problem, he went on to explain, was that they didn’t have any in stock, so they were sending someone out to get one from another dealership. Not to worry though. It shouldn’t be more than another 30-45 minutes. So I settled back in to wait, and gritted my teeth through a second episode of Judge Judy (for the love of all things holy, please please don’t let it be a Judge Judy marathon!) and the plaintiff whined on about her loser dead-beat boyfriend not paying rent like he promised.
An hour after the second promised 40 minutes had passed, my new part must have arrived, because the horn went off again. The other customers in the waiting room jumped and giggled nervously. Somebody murmured that he hoped that wasn’t his car out there, but I just smiled. It’s actually pretty funny when it isn’t you trying to get the bleeping horn to stop. I could hear several of the mechanics trying to yell over the noise. The horn monster wasn’t going down without a fight.
I was in the middle of ignoring some soap opera drama (at least we were free of Judge Judy and her minions of morons) when the mechanic staggered back into the waiting room. His hair was sticking up in tufts on his head and he was talking louder than necessary (I hope the hearing loss from the horn battle is just temporary) but he did manage to let me know that they had finally been able to defeat the horn monster and return my car to normal (and quiet) working order. He handed me my keys and almost pushed me out the door towards my car, as glad to be rid of me and my horn as I was to escape my little prison cell of daytime television.
Estimated time to fix horn: 40 minutes
Actual time to fix horn: 3 hours and 30 minutes
Number of times Judge Judy scowled and interrupted people to tell them that they were idiots: 42*
Number of decibels of my car horn: 110
Number of times that horn went off while being fixed: 8
Number of times that other people in the waiting room jumped when the horn went off: 8
Number of times that horn has gone off since it was fixed: 0
Let’s hope we’ve heard the last of the horn monster.
*an estimate…like I said, I was trying to tune her out
About thirty minutes AFTER the 40 minutes they promised me, a guy came in to tell me that I needed a new horn pad because “By durn! That other one was really stuck!” The problem, he went on to explain, was that they didn’t have any in stock, so they were sending someone out to get one from another dealership. Not to worry though. It shouldn’t be more than another 30-45 minutes. So I settled back in to wait, and gritted my teeth through a second episode of Judge Judy (for the love of all things holy, please please don’t let it be a Judge Judy marathon!) and the plaintiff whined on about her loser dead-beat boyfriend not paying rent like he promised.
An hour after the second promised 40 minutes had passed, my new part must have arrived, because the horn went off again. The other customers in the waiting room jumped and giggled nervously. Somebody murmured that he hoped that wasn’t his car out there, but I just smiled. It’s actually pretty funny when it isn’t you trying to get the bleeping horn to stop. I could hear several of the mechanics trying to yell over the noise. The horn monster wasn’t going down without a fight.
I was in the middle of ignoring some soap opera drama (at least we were free of Judge Judy and her minions of morons) when the mechanic staggered back into the waiting room. His hair was sticking up in tufts on his head and he was talking louder than necessary (I hope the hearing loss from the horn battle is just temporary) but he did manage to let me know that they had finally been able to defeat the horn monster and return my car to normal (and quiet) working order. He handed me my keys and almost pushed me out the door towards my car, as glad to be rid of me and my horn as I was to escape my little prison cell of daytime television.
Estimated time to fix horn: 40 minutes
Actual time to fix horn: 3 hours and 30 minutes
Number of times Judge Judy scowled and interrupted people to tell them that they were idiots: 42*
Number of decibels of my car horn: 110
Number of times that horn went off while being fixed: 8
Number of times that other people in the waiting room jumped when the horn went off: 8
Number of times that horn has gone off since it was fixed: 0
Let’s hope we’ve heard the last of the horn monster.
*an estimate…like I said, I was trying to tune her out
12/16/08
The Horn Monster Returneth
So I’m driving home from the gym last night, singing along to the radio at the top of my lungs (Sometime Around Midnight by The Airborne Toxic Event, if you want to recreate the scene) when I hear this part of the song that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s this constant sound, half-way hidden under the drums and guitars, and it kind of goes “HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNK”. And because I’m clueless, I think, “Huh. I wonder what instrument makes that sound”.
I’ll give you a hint. It’s a horn.
A CAR horn.
MY car horn.
Again.
“NOOOOO!” I yelled! (Actually, I yelled some other choice words too, but Nooooo! is the only one that I can reprint here). And even though the first time proved that beating the steering wheel is completely ineffective, I beat it anyway. Because there’s not much else you can do to unstick a car horn while driving down the middle of the interstate, and you have to try something.
And just so you know, the level of mortification does not decrease any with familiarity. It was the same, only this time anger and frustration were making their appearances also, because suddenly this wasn’t a freak one-time occurrence anymore. And I didn’t do anything to set it off. I was just driving along, minding my own business, not even touching it! As a matter of fact, ever since it happened the first time, I’ve been driving with only my fingertips touching the every edges of the wheel, careful not to so much as even breathe funny and anger the psycho spastic Horn Monster living inside my steering wheel.
But now I have no choice but to take it to the dealership so that they can force me to drive a rental for three days before calling me up to tell me that they can’t find anything wrong with my horn. And I’ll insist, and they’ll shrug and say something about checking it again while they make it clear that they’re just humoring the crazy lady.
Plus the car is still under warranty, which you think would be a good thing, but really just requires me to fill out a lot of paperwork for them to tell me that I’m imagining the horn, or that the horn is supposed to randomly blow like that, or that the horn blowing is a pre-existing condition caused by normal wear and tear and only covered on vehicles with less the 20,000 miles when the last new moon was in line with Pluto and therefore not covered under my warranty. (If it is the last case, then the horn will suddenly be a huge complicated problem requiring a whole new steering wheel and cost the equivalent of the national debt).
And I will grumble. But I will drive their stinky rental car, and pay their national debt bills, and endure their crazy lady shrugs because the random horn blowing? Not cool. Not the kind of attention that I’m looking for.
Once was a freak thing. Twice? This means war, Horn Monster.
I’ll give you a hint. It’s a horn.
A CAR horn.
MY car horn.
Again.
“NOOOOO!” I yelled! (Actually, I yelled some other choice words too, but Nooooo! is the only one that I can reprint here). And even though the first time proved that beating the steering wheel is completely ineffective, I beat it anyway. Because there’s not much else you can do to unstick a car horn while driving down the middle of the interstate, and you have to try something.
And just so you know, the level of mortification does not decrease any with familiarity. It was the same, only this time anger and frustration were making their appearances also, because suddenly this wasn’t a freak one-time occurrence anymore. And I didn’t do anything to set it off. I was just driving along, minding my own business, not even touching it! As a matter of fact, ever since it happened the first time, I’ve been driving with only my fingertips touching the every edges of the wheel, careful not to so much as even breathe funny and anger the psycho spastic Horn Monster living inside my steering wheel.
But now I have no choice but to take it to the dealership so that they can force me to drive a rental for three days before calling me up to tell me that they can’t find anything wrong with my horn. And I’ll insist, and they’ll shrug and say something about checking it again while they make it clear that they’re just humoring the crazy lady.
Plus the car is still under warranty, which you think would be a good thing, but really just requires me to fill out a lot of paperwork for them to tell me that I’m imagining the horn, or that the horn is supposed to randomly blow like that, or that the horn blowing is a pre-existing condition caused by normal wear and tear and only covered on vehicles with less the 20,000 miles when the last new moon was in line with Pluto and therefore not covered under my warranty. (If it is the last case, then the horn will suddenly be a huge complicated problem requiring a whole new steering wheel and cost the equivalent of the national debt).
And I will grumble. But I will drive their stinky rental car, and pay their national debt bills, and endure their crazy lady shrugs because the random horn blowing? Not cool. Not the kind of attention that I’m looking for.
Once was a freak thing. Twice? This means war, Horn Monster.