Jeremy just doesn't understand. These things do happen to me. All the time. I think it's some sort of cosmic force that draws chaos to me. In fact, science should study my life. I'm a walking illustration of chaos theory. Truly and obviously, these things could never be my fault. They just happen--pure coincidence. I admit, this past week was probably a bit more extreme than most. Just a bit.
Wednesday:
Poor Audrey starts to have a seizure. I herd Jack out into the hall. Jack's getting older and has recently started having some bladder control issues in the afternoon if we forget to let him out around noon. Jack immediately pees on the floor. Audrey's in the kitchen on the floor now covered in pee. I sigh, let Jack out, and wonder if we need to invest in Pine Sol and Mr. Clean. Then I watch as the cat cocks her ears back, shakes her little stubby tail, and hurtles toward the front screen door where Mama sits meowing in at us (Mama is a calico cat who seems to have adopted us this past year, and let's just say Binny is none to pleased about the "intruder," even if she is always outside and Binny always inside.) Thud! Whap! Binny slams into the door sending the wooden frame slamming. Sigh.
Thursday:
Jeremy's sick and laying in bed reading. I go on a cleaning spurt, which also includes unplugging the upstairs toilet. I flush it to get some water in and watch as it slowly fills. And keeps filling. And overflows, and overflows, and overflows. Somehow, my mind just shuts off. For the life of me, I can't think how to get the toilet to stop overflowing and just stare as the water keeps coming, basically thinking "Uh oh." Finally it stops. I start grabbing old towels to sop up the zillion gallons of water pooling on the floor. Just then, I hear Jeremy slamming out of the bedroom.
"What are you doing!"
"The toilet overflowed," I reply. I can tell he's, well, to put it mildly, not very happy about something, so there's no way I'm going to tell him what actually happened.
"Why is it raining in the bedroom!" Oops. That's not good. That's not a happy husband. How do I get myself out of this one.
"I couldn't get it to stop," I meekly yell down the stairs. All I hear is mumbling and the kitchen door slamming. I decide that maybe I should stay away from him for a while. Luckily, roughly 20 towels and half an hour later, I've finally got all the water mopped up off the floor and Jeremy has calmed down.
"Why didn't you stop it?" he asks incredulously.
"I couldn't remember how."
"You just open up the back of the toilet and push the little stopper down." By this point, he's looking at me as if I'm the daftest person in the world.
"Oh," I respond simply. That definitely makes sense. I definitely new that. "I forgot about that." Jeremy responded something about wondering how I manage to function most days. I tried to look cute and sweet so he couldn't stay mad about all the buckets and towels now scattered around the bedroom.
Friday
I'm filling up the plastic cat food cup so I can go feed Mama outside. I reach into the tub of food, fill it up, go to pull it out, and immediately drop the whole cup in the pantry. Cat food rains down all over everything. Little tiny pieces of cat food all over the shelves, stuck in the bag of potatoes, covering the jars of canned preservers, inside the basket of light bulbs. . . I turn around, and Jeremy just looks at me, amazed. And not the good sort of amazement.
"How do you do these things?"
"I don't know. I just lost hold of it. They just sort of happen." It wouldn't have been so bad, but just that morning when I was running late for work, I instant messaged him from my computer downstairs, letting him know that I had "lost hold" of the blind again, which sent the thing flying up and rolling into a tight little tube at the top of the window. Losing hold of the blind wouldn't be so bad, but I do it on a fairly regular basis. And, since the windows are so tall, it means the person resetting it has to find a chair, climb up on it, take the blind down, and completely reroll it. That person is usually Jeremy because I can't reroll anything right (he doesn't even bother having me try to coil extension cords or hoses anymore). When I told him about the blind this morning, I had also said "I just lost hold of it," when explaining what had happened.
Saturday
I picked up the salt shaker to clean the kitchen counters. I had just refilled all the salt shakers a few days before. As I pick it up, the plug, which I obviously didn't get in tight, falls out, and salt pours all over the counter and floor.
"Oh crap!" I shout.
"What! Jeremy turns around in his chair all worried that something bad had happened. He looks at the salt and sighs.
"These things only happen to you. No one else. They're only Lisa things. How do you do these things?"
"I don't know. They just happen," I say as I begin to pile up the salt on the counter. On the plus side, the toothpick finally came out. The toothpick, which we had used to unclug the holes in the shaker when the summer humidity started clogging them up, had been in the shaker since probably last July--after I lost hold of it.
Suddenly, he looks at me in a calculating way. "You are not going to put that salt back in the shaker, are you?"
Okay, so he caught me. I had been contemplating doing just that--I had just cleaned the counter, and we were out of salt.
"No. Of course not," I replied, grabbing the garbage can and scooping the salt into it. "But we are out of salt."
Sunday
Mama cat is extremely pregnant. I tried to give her a lecture about "Tom," (the conflicted male cat who hissed at me, then meowed when I would go outside to feed Mama) when Tom first started hanging around in December. She didn't listen. Now Tom is gone, and Mama is wide as semi about to pop any day now. Saturday, Mama was MIA when I went to feed her, which is very unusual because she has become very demanding about her food.
Sunday, around 4 am, I'm awakened to very loud little mews. The very loud little mews are coming from our laundry room, which is adjacent to the bedroom. How did Mama get in? Well, the laundry room (which will eventually be the master bath) has no floor over about 1/2 of it, leaving a gigantic, gaping hole, through which you can see the ground about 4 feet below. Apparently, Mama decided our laundry room was the safest place to have her new brood. Not just in the laundry room, but behind my washer. On the new section of unfinished, cypress floor that Jeremy had gotten installed. Wonderful.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Trashy Valentine
Valentine's Day is rapidly approaching--that day of love, romance, mushiness, and all that other fun stuff. This is Jeremy and my 13th Valentine's Day together. Does he still have that wonderful engraved zippo from our first Valentine's Day together? Of course not. The Sarah McLachlan cd I forced on him another Valentine's Day? Maybe somewhere buried under the rest of my Lilith Fair input. Some may wonder just how you keep a relationship so fresh and alive for so many years. It's really quite simple. You just have to make sure you stay a little trashy.
Or maybe it's just the trash talk.
Exhibit A
We're both sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and relaxing as a fire gently crackles.
"What's that?" Jeremy asks.
"What?"
"That. Right there."
"What are you talking about. I have no clue what "that" is."
"THAT! Right there. It looks like cat yak." I still can't see what exactly he's pointing at. When I follow his finger, all I see is floor.
"I don't see anything at all." At this point, I'm pretty sure he's just not awake enough and is hallucinating, well, cat yak on the floor.
"It's right there! About 4 inches from the brick," Jeremy says, pointing again to the brick surrounding the bottom of the fireplace. I look. There's not a thing out there.
"What in the world are you talking about?" I scan the floor, scan the surrounding area, and finally I see something, definitely not cat yak and not 4 inches from the brick.
"That?" I ask, pointing at the spot on the floor.
"Yes! That! Four inches from the brick. You have absolutely no spacial awareness whatsoever," Jeremy grumbles. Now, this might seem like an odd thing to start a pseudo argument, except for the fact that it's a rather long-running argument. Do I actually have no spacial awareness? Yes. Am I ever going to truly admit that fact? No.
So, I reply, "It's not cat yak. It's a dead plant leaf. And it's not 4 inches from the brick; it's at least 6." Now, you might think that having determined what and where something disgusting is on your floor would simply lead to that something disgusting being cleaned up. Nope, not in our house. (I won't even get into what Jeremy refers to as "The Bucket of Doom" upstairs in the hallway. I will simply say, yes, it came out of an animal; yes, Jeremy did put a bucket over it rather than clean it up; and yes, I looked and decided the bucket should stay in place until. . .one of us hasn't eaten so recently). Therefore, instead of simply picking up said dead leaf and throwing it away, we then got into a lengthy debate about just how far away the dead leaf actually was. Obviously, I was right, but, of course, Jeremy wouldn't cave. So, out comes the tape measure (which took roughly 15 minutes to locate). With precise measurements completed, the leaf was roughly 5.5 inches from the brick, meaning I was right! Ha. Spacial awareness my . . . I was righter. (Yes, righter is a word. See clause 23b under rights attained after finishing a ph.d in English [that's the one that states I can make up whatever words I want because I spent way to much money on a degree revolving around words]).
I basked in my triumph. The measurements couldn't be denied, and, for once, I was more spacially accurate than Jeremy. We sat there, silently sipping our coffee, both pondering my amazingness (yes, I can create that word too). Did either of us bother picking up the dead leaf? Nope.
Exibit B
It really was quite accidental. We found this neat, old gumball-type machine at an antique store. It had a black, ornate, cast iron base building up to a deep blue, metal base topped by a glass globe. Both Jeremy and I remembered always plugging money into those things as kids--peanuts, m&m's, gumballs, sweet tarts--all the yummy childhood delicacies pouring out after a carefully begged parental quarter was inserted and twisted into the machine. Yep, the gumball machine came home with us.
I carefully cleaned the device, and somehow decided it must be filled with nuts . Yummy salty goodness pouring out just like when we were kids. I carefully filled up the thing with about 8 containers of peanuts and mixed nuts, then proudly stood back and delighted in my dispenser. For about a week, both of us delighted in our new peanut dispenser. Then we forgot about it. Then something happened that pretty much ensured it will never be used as a peanut dispenser again.
"Oh, that is just digusting!" Jeremy said as he leaned over the gumball/peanut machine.
"What? What's wrong?" I asked
"Have you looked at this thing lately?" Jeremy asked.
"No. Why?"
"Umm, just come and look at it." I walked over and bent down, staring into the peanut-filled globe. "Oh. Oh, that's gross!" I hurried away and sat down. I will just confirm it here. Jeremy and I are both wimps when it comes to cleaning up disgusting stuff. If it is something disgusting we can safely ignore, with no fear of it spreading/contaminating something else, we really can let it just sit. Which was exactly what happened with the newly worm-infested "peanut" dispenser. Neither of us could bring ourselves to do anything with it. So, it just sat for a week while we debated the easiest way to dispense of our new bug habitat.
Should we have taken care of it right away? Of course! But, since we didn't, we discovered the next week what a joy our "habitat" really could be. That was when 100s of teeny, tiny little moths emerged, fluttering all around our kitchen. One moth would have been no problem, but 100s of them were not so pleasant. Top that off with one psychotic cat chasing after every moth she saw and 2 dogs who thought the cat might have found something interesting . . . Let's just say, for anyone considering it, a moth terrarium really is not a good idea.
Ruminations
Hopefully, I've pinpointed just how your trashy side can spice up a relationship. And, you don't even have to spend a lot to capture that purely enticing trashiness that only a man could love (I mean really, we're talking about a gender that, no matter what the age, still loves a good fart joke).
Or maybe it's just the trash talk.
Exhibit A
We're both sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and relaxing as a fire gently crackles.
"What's that?" Jeremy asks.
"What?"
"That. Right there."
"What are you talking about. I have no clue what "that" is."
"THAT! Right there. It looks like cat yak." I still can't see what exactly he's pointing at. When I follow his finger, all I see is floor.
"I don't see anything at all." At this point, I'm pretty sure he's just not awake enough and is hallucinating, well, cat yak on the floor.
"It's right there! About 4 inches from the brick," Jeremy says, pointing again to the brick surrounding the bottom of the fireplace. I look. There's not a thing out there.
"What in the world are you talking about?" I scan the floor, scan the surrounding area, and finally I see something, definitely not cat yak and not 4 inches from the brick.
"That?" I ask, pointing at the spot on the floor.
"Yes! That! Four inches from the brick. You have absolutely no spacial awareness whatsoever," Jeremy grumbles. Now, this might seem like an odd thing to start a pseudo argument, except for the fact that it's a rather long-running argument. Do I actually have no spacial awareness? Yes. Am I ever going to truly admit that fact? No.
So, I reply, "It's not cat yak. It's a dead plant leaf. And it's not 4 inches from the brick; it's at least 6." Now, you might think that having determined what and where something disgusting is on your floor would simply lead to that something disgusting being cleaned up. Nope, not in our house. (I won't even get into what Jeremy refers to as "The Bucket of Doom" upstairs in the hallway. I will simply say, yes, it came out of an animal; yes, Jeremy did put a bucket over it rather than clean it up; and yes, I looked and decided the bucket should stay in place until. . .one of us hasn't eaten so recently). Therefore, instead of simply picking up said dead leaf and throwing it away, we then got into a lengthy debate about just how far away the dead leaf actually was. Obviously, I was right, but, of course, Jeremy wouldn't cave. So, out comes the tape measure (which took roughly 15 minutes to locate). With precise measurements completed, the leaf was roughly 5.5 inches from the brick, meaning I was right! Ha. Spacial awareness my . . . I was righter. (Yes, righter is a word. See clause 23b under rights attained after finishing a ph.d in English [that's the one that states I can make up whatever words I want because I spent way to much money on a degree revolving around words]).
I basked in my triumph. The measurements couldn't be denied, and, for once, I was more spacially accurate than Jeremy. We sat there, silently sipping our coffee, both pondering my amazingness (yes, I can create that word too). Did either of us bother picking up the dead leaf? Nope.
Exibit B
It really was quite accidental. We found this neat, old gumball-type machine at an antique store. It had a black, ornate, cast iron base building up to a deep blue, metal base topped by a glass globe. Both Jeremy and I remembered always plugging money into those things as kids--peanuts, m&m's, gumballs, sweet tarts--all the yummy childhood delicacies pouring out after a carefully begged parental quarter was inserted and twisted into the machine. Yep, the gumball machine came home with us.
I carefully cleaned the device, and somehow decided it must be filled with nuts . Yummy salty goodness pouring out just like when we were kids. I carefully filled up the thing with about 8 containers of peanuts and mixed nuts, then proudly stood back and delighted in my dispenser. For about a week, both of us delighted in our new peanut dispenser. Then we forgot about it. Then something happened that pretty much ensured it will never be used as a peanut dispenser again.
"Oh, that is just digusting!" Jeremy said as he leaned over the gumball/peanut machine.
"What? What's wrong?" I asked
"Have you looked at this thing lately?" Jeremy asked.
"No. Why?"
"Umm, just come and look at it." I walked over and bent down, staring into the peanut-filled globe. "Oh. Oh, that's gross!" I hurried away and sat down. I will just confirm it here. Jeremy and I are both wimps when it comes to cleaning up disgusting stuff. If it is something disgusting we can safely ignore, with no fear of it spreading/contaminating something else, we really can let it just sit. Which was exactly what happened with the newly worm-infested "peanut" dispenser. Neither of us could bring ourselves to do anything with it. So, it just sat for a week while we debated the easiest way to dispense of our new bug habitat.
Should we have taken care of it right away? Of course! But, since we didn't, we discovered the next week what a joy our "habitat" really could be. That was when 100s of teeny, tiny little moths emerged, fluttering all around our kitchen. One moth would have been no problem, but 100s of them were not so pleasant. Top that off with one psychotic cat chasing after every moth she saw and 2 dogs who thought the cat might have found something interesting . . . Let's just say, for anyone considering it, a moth terrarium really is not a good idea.
Ruminations
Hopefully, I've pinpointed just how your trashy side can spice up a relationship. And, you don't even have to spend a lot to capture that purely enticing trashiness that only a man could love (I mean really, we're talking about a gender that, no matter what the age, still loves a good fart joke).
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sock Theory
I hate socks. Okay, maybe it's not so much socks that suck, but the tediousness of matching up 20 zillion pairs, all in different styles, of white socks. And no, these are not my socks, but Jeremy's socks. For years, I have refused to wear socks--that's how much I despise, loathe, detest matching up socks. However, given our new heating scenario (aka no central heat), I, sadly, have had to do away with the no sock usage to keep my feet from becoming something akin to frozen fish sticks (yes, I am admitting that, even while cold, my feet can be a tiny bit smelly. I don't know why, but they still sweat in my shoes).
Therefore, I have developed my own sock theory, a theory I believe would make millions of people incredibly happy if they also were to adopt it. Despite what Jeremy says about my socks, the theory is brilliant (as are the socks). Without further ado, I will impart the incredible wisdom and brilliance of my sock theory.
1. Never Buy White Socks
White socks are bad. Everyone should know this by now anyway. Which socks always disappear when you do laundry? White socks. I think there is a covert white sock convention somewhere. They're all sitting around drinking margaritas on the beach trying to get a tan. Can you blame them? They are white and pasty all the time. Well, at least until someone walks outside through dirt in them (not me. I'd never steal a pair of Jeremy's socks because I had none of my own, then wander outside to dump garbage in the bin). I think what they are secretly looking for is a little bit of color, no matter if it is dirt, because once dirty, no amount of bleach is going to get them clean. Trust me. I know. I'm now up to about half a jug of bleach per load of white laundry, and they still come out stained.
2. Buy the Ugliest Socks You Can Find
Let's face it. Socks are boring. (And yes, I'm writing a whole blog about socks--I suppose that might say something about me. Based upon my own Freudian analysis of myself, I must dislike . . . hmmm. No wonder I think Freud is overrated. Could also explain why no one's delved into a psychoanalytic sock theory.) Everyone buys the same types of socks. If they're not white, they're tan, brown, dark blue, or black. Boring! I don't think seasonal depression is based on the actual changing of the seasons, but rather the fact that people are stuck, for umpteen months, staring at the horribly bland and dreary socks they wear. If you want to be in a good mood, you must buy the ugliest socks you can find. This means no monotone socks! Your socks must have not only a wide variety of colors that should never go together, but also a wide variety of patterns. Stripes, polka dots, diamonds, little pictures--you get the idea. There is nothing that can brighten a mood faster than looking down at your feet and catching a glimpse of chartreuse, fuschia, and lemon yellow spots leaping off a purple background.
Not only will it cheer you up, but also anyone who sees the socks can't help but comment on them. You don't know how many times I have seen Jeremy stop, look at my feet, and ask what the hell I'm wearing. And this from a man who doesn't even like feet (especially when I purposefully touch him with my feet--never seen anyone jerk away so fast in my life! Okay, so maybe that falls into another blog topic of "Spousal Torture: Things that Annoy Him/Her that Amuse the Crap Out of You"). My current favorites are a striped pair: purple, pink, orange, and white stripes. Are they ugly? Well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, I have no problem finding my matches in the laundry.
3. The Fuzzier the Better
Find the thickest, fuzziest, ugliest socks you can. This brings about the optimum pleasure for all. First, for you, the softer and fuzzier, the better they feel on your feet. It's sort of like walking around on a trampoline. There's just a certain bounce to your step, partially from the added thickness and partially for the dazzling color variety they come in.
A few precautions though, if you are buying your first pairs of thick, fuzzy socks. These are things I have learned from personal experience, so I am the expert. Make sure your socks don't have those hospital track things on the bottom. While they might seem like a good idea--after all, they're supposed to keep you from sliding on slick floors--they aren't. Every time you walk, you feel the little bumps under your feet, and it makes you feel like you have something stuck in your sock that you need to dig out. Unfortunately, no amount of tearing fully removes these little bumps, which, in turn, renders the socks virtually unuseable (unless you want some interesting sock puppets). Besides, what's the fun of a slick floor if you can't just slide wherever you want to go?
The next precaution? Make sure the fuzzies on the socks don't easily come off. This just makes more work than you really want and detracts from the pleasure. Instead of happily contemplating your socks, you instead find yourself watching little blobs of fuzz float around the house. Then the cat gets in on the fun. Thirteen pounds of cat at a 10 mile per hour speed chasing an endless amount of fuzzies across hardwood floor, followed by a 65 pound dog who thinks the cat might have found something exciting (Audrey never learns) makes for a lot of noise and activity breaking into your peaceful solitude. On top of that, when you wash them, the fuzzies cling, or maybe a better word is fuse themselves, to every other piece of laundry in the load. You might be thinking, "Well, obviously, they would all end up in the lint trap eventually." Don't think it. You are wrong. They never end up in the lint trap. There is some sort of magnetic force that repells brilliantly colored fuzzies from the lint trap and sends them spinning into any piece of clothing that contains the exact opposite colors of the fuzzies.
Finally, a third precaution--make sure your fuzzy socks aren't made of the really loopy strings. Yes, these are still warm, thick, and contain a brilliant kaleidoscope of wonderfully contrasting colors, just like all the other socks. However, whenever you walk over something very rough, at least one of the loopy strings is going to get stuck on whatever is sticking out (tiny piece of wood sticking up from the floor, pen on a chair, hinge on the edge of the door . . .). Just as soon as it gets stuck, the loopy strings in the sock start unraveling. Then, oh look! Here comes the cat. Followed by the dog. Followed by the other dog. . .
In other words, what I'm saying is that much thought and care must go into your selection of fuzzy socks. Can you just look at a pair with smiley faces on a hot pink background and snatch them up? NO! You must think about the consequences. Okay, so in some cases, you just have to weigh the consequences over the beauty of the pattern. Sometimes, the socks are just not going to be pratical, and the pattern will win. I can't be a Nazi about this when I know that if I found the above described socks, no matter how much fuzz or how many strings they would bleed, I would be taking them home.
4. Holiday Socks: The Dos and Don'ts
Holiday socks are a must! There is nothing tackier -- er, more beautiful-- than holiday socks. We all get holiday socks. We have a stash of holiday socks. They pile up. We can't get rid of them because they are new socks, and they were a gift. We can't regift them because, well, they're holiday socks. I realize only the truly brave can do this, but you must embrace the holiday sock! There is no sock that sends quite the same message as the holiday sock (get back to me later on what that message actually is). They are distinctive, always proudly displaying a unique repeating picture (you know, unique--pumpkins, Christmas Trees, hearts, Easter bunnies. . .). In order to completely immerse yourself, completely absorb the sock theory, you must wear holiday socks!
However, there is only one way you can be "cool," while wearing holiday socks. You can NEVER, and I repeat NEVER (notice the emphasis here. If you take one sock theory away from this radically revolutionary post, it must be this one), wear holiday socks for their correct holiday. Halloween socks for Valentine's Day? Yes! Christmas socks for the 4th of July? Yes! St. Patrick's Day socks for Thanksgiving? Yes! Easter socks for Easter? Noooo! That would be a travesty that would make you irremediably unchic. This is the worst sock sin you could ever commit! You simply cannot wear a holiday sock for its appropriate holiday!
5. Do Not Match
Last but not least, your socks should never match the clothes you are wearing. Coordinating an outfit is perfectly fine. Coordinating your socks to that outfit just puts you right back in the boring category. The reason for this is that you've now deemphasized your socks. They are no longer important, so who's going to bother looking at them? I know I wouldn't bother. Why is it so important not to match? Think of all the cheer, entertainment, and conversation you're adding to both your life and others' lives through your socks. What happens to all that when your socks match, and no one's looking at them? Gone! All gone! You might as well have just bought those monotonous, white socks. You're right back at square one, which obviously also makes you uncool again. So, if you're wearing purple, make sure your socks contain no purple! If you're wearing black . . . you get the idea.
Concluding Remarks
I know what you're thinking now. The sock theory is revolutionary! If you follow, it will change your life! You will gain wealth. You'd be amazed at how cheap ugly socks are. You will gain happiness. Never again will you desperate search through 50 white socks to find that one match. Never again will you look at your feet and feel depressed. You will gain companionship and conversation. Every time you wear a pair, someone is bound to talk to you. You will gain self confidence and assertiveness. What else could you gain after continually having your socks made fun of? Friends will envy you for your keen and edgy fashion sense. The benefits are innumerable!
Now that I've outlined the sock theory, it's up to you to take control of your life! Apply the sock theory, and, just like me, you'll--well, you'll at least have warmer feet!
Therefore, I have developed my own sock theory, a theory I believe would make millions of people incredibly happy if they also were to adopt it. Despite what Jeremy says about my socks, the theory is brilliant (as are the socks). Without further ado, I will impart the incredible wisdom and brilliance of my sock theory.
1. Never Buy White Socks
White socks are bad. Everyone should know this by now anyway. Which socks always disappear when you do laundry? White socks. I think there is a covert white sock convention somewhere. They're all sitting around drinking margaritas on the beach trying to get a tan. Can you blame them? They are white and pasty all the time. Well, at least until someone walks outside through dirt in them (not me. I'd never steal a pair of Jeremy's socks because I had none of my own, then wander outside to dump garbage in the bin). I think what they are secretly looking for is a little bit of color, no matter if it is dirt, because once dirty, no amount of bleach is going to get them clean. Trust me. I know. I'm now up to about half a jug of bleach per load of white laundry, and they still come out stained.
2. Buy the Ugliest Socks You Can Find
Let's face it. Socks are boring. (And yes, I'm writing a whole blog about socks--I suppose that might say something about me. Based upon my own Freudian analysis of myself, I must dislike . . . hmmm. No wonder I think Freud is overrated. Could also explain why no one's delved into a psychoanalytic sock theory.) Everyone buys the same types of socks. If they're not white, they're tan, brown, dark blue, or black. Boring! I don't think seasonal depression is based on the actual changing of the seasons, but rather the fact that people are stuck, for umpteen months, staring at the horribly bland and dreary socks they wear. If you want to be in a good mood, you must buy the ugliest socks you can find. This means no monotone socks! Your socks must have not only a wide variety of colors that should never go together, but also a wide variety of patterns. Stripes, polka dots, diamonds, little pictures--you get the idea. There is nothing that can brighten a mood faster than looking down at your feet and catching a glimpse of chartreuse, fuschia, and lemon yellow spots leaping off a purple background.
Not only will it cheer you up, but also anyone who sees the socks can't help but comment on them. You don't know how many times I have seen Jeremy stop, look at my feet, and ask what the hell I'm wearing. And this from a man who doesn't even like feet (especially when I purposefully touch him with my feet--never seen anyone jerk away so fast in my life! Okay, so maybe that falls into another blog topic of "Spousal Torture: Things that Annoy Him/Her that Amuse the Crap Out of You"). My current favorites are a striped pair: purple, pink, orange, and white stripes. Are they ugly? Well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, I have no problem finding my matches in the laundry.
3. The Fuzzier the Better
Find the thickest, fuzziest, ugliest socks you can. This brings about the optimum pleasure for all. First, for you, the softer and fuzzier, the better they feel on your feet. It's sort of like walking around on a trampoline. There's just a certain bounce to your step, partially from the added thickness and partially for the dazzling color variety they come in.
A few precautions though, if you are buying your first pairs of thick, fuzzy socks. These are things I have learned from personal experience, so I am the expert. Make sure your socks don't have those hospital track things on the bottom. While they might seem like a good idea--after all, they're supposed to keep you from sliding on slick floors--they aren't. Every time you walk, you feel the little bumps under your feet, and it makes you feel like you have something stuck in your sock that you need to dig out. Unfortunately, no amount of tearing fully removes these little bumps, which, in turn, renders the socks virtually unuseable (unless you want some interesting sock puppets). Besides, what's the fun of a slick floor if you can't just slide wherever you want to go?
The next precaution? Make sure the fuzzies on the socks don't easily come off. This just makes more work than you really want and detracts from the pleasure. Instead of happily contemplating your socks, you instead find yourself watching little blobs of fuzz float around the house. Then the cat gets in on the fun. Thirteen pounds of cat at a 10 mile per hour speed chasing an endless amount of fuzzies across hardwood floor, followed by a 65 pound dog who thinks the cat might have found something exciting (Audrey never learns) makes for a lot of noise and activity breaking into your peaceful solitude. On top of that, when you wash them, the fuzzies cling, or maybe a better word is fuse themselves, to every other piece of laundry in the load. You might be thinking, "Well, obviously, they would all end up in the lint trap eventually." Don't think it. You are wrong. They never end up in the lint trap. There is some sort of magnetic force that repells brilliantly colored fuzzies from the lint trap and sends them spinning into any piece of clothing that contains the exact opposite colors of the fuzzies.
Finally, a third precaution--make sure your fuzzy socks aren't made of the really loopy strings. Yes, these are still warm, thick, and contain a brilliant kaleidoscope of wonderfully contrasting colors, just like all the other socks. However, whenever you walk over something very rough, at least one of the loopy strings is going to get stuck on whatever is sticking out (tiny piece of wood sticking up from the floor, pen on a chair, hinge on the edge of the door . . .). Just as soon as it gets stuck, the loopy strings in the sock start unraveling. Then, oh look! Here comes the cat. Followed by the dog. Followed by the other dog. . .
In other words, what I'm saying is that much thought and care must go into your selection of fuzzy socks. Can you just look at a pair with smiley faces on a hot pink background and snatch them up? NO! You must think about the consequences. Okay, so in some cases, you just have to weigh the consequences over the beauty of the pattern. Sometimes, the socks are just not going to be pratical, and the pattern will win. I can't be a Nazi about this when I know that if I found the above described socks, no matter how much fuzz or how many strings they would bleed, I would be taking them home.
4. Holiday Socks: The Dos and Don'ts
Holiday socks are a must! There is nothing tackier -- er, more beautiful-- than holiday socks. We all get holiday socks. We have a stash of holiday socks. They pile up. We can't get rid of them because they are new socks, and they were a gift. We can't regift them because, well, they're holiday socks. I realize only the truly brave can do this, but you must embrace the holiday sock! There is no sock that sends quite the same message as the holiday sock (get back to me later on what that message actually is). They are distinctive, always proudly displaying a unique repeating picture (you know, unique--pumpkins, Christmas Trees, hearts, Easter bunnies. . .). In order to completely immerse yourself, completely absorb the sock theory, you must wear holiday socks!
However, there is only one way you can be "cool," while wearing holiday socks. You can NEVER, and I repeat NEVER (notice the emphasis here. If you take one sock theory away from this radically revolutionary post, it must be this one), wear holiday socks for their correct holiday. Halloween socks for Valentine's Day? Yes! Christmas socks for the 4th of July? Yes! St. Patrick's Day socks for Thanksgiving? Yes! Easter socks for Easter? Noooo! That would be a travesty that would make you irremediably unchic. This is the worst sock sin you could ever commit! You simply cannot wear a holiday sock for its appropriate holiday!
5. Do Not Match
Last but not least, your socks should never match the clothes you are wearing. Coordinating an outfit is perfectly fine. Coordinating your socks to that outfit just puts you right back in the boring category. The reason for this is that you've now deemphasized your socks. They are no longer important, so who's going to bother looking at them? I know I wouldn't bother. Why is it so important not to match? Think of all the cheer, entertainment, and conversation you're adding to both your life and others' lives through your socks. What happens to all that when your socks match, and no one's looking at them? Gone! All gone! You might as well have just bought those monotonous, white socks. You're right back at square one, which obviously also makes you uncool again. So, if you're wearing purple, make sure your socks contain no purple! If you're wearing black . . . you get the idea.
Concluding Remarks
I know what you're thinking now. The sock theory is revolutionary! If you follow, it will change your life! You will gain wealth. You'd be amazed at how cheap ugly socks are. You will gain happiness. Never again will you desperate search through 50 white socks to find that one match. Never again will you look at your feet and feel depressed. You will gain companionship and conversation. Every time you wear a pair, someone is bound to talk to you. You will gain self confidence and assertiveness. What else could you gain after continually having your socks made fun of? Friends will envy you for your keen and edgy fashion sense. The benefits are innumerable!
Now that I've outlined the sock theory, it's up to you to take control of your life! Apply the sock theory, and, just like me, you'll--well, you'll at least have warmer feet!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Landscaping Project--The Conclusion
Okay, so I got a little behind on my blogging lately! I figured I'd fill you in on my landscaping project. First, we have to backtrack a little bit to the beginning of July.
I imagine you're already thinking "a landscaping project in July? No one plants anything in July." However, you are so wrong. I plant things in July. Granted, it was not really by choice--it was more that I pretty much had to do something with what was left of the plants I started in February. After all that work with the seeds, and the watering, and the plant tending, I had to have something to show for my landscaping project effort!
So, it's a Sunday in early July. Lucky me, it happens to be one of the hottest Sundays of the whole summer--somewhere around 101 + heat index. And what am I doing? Planting what's left of my plants. I'd venture a guess that of all the seeds I started and all the bulbs I ordered, probably only about 1/3 of them survived to July, when I finally got around to planting what was left. Of the plants that were still living, I'd venture a guess that roughly 10 survived. Alright, so I knew July was a bad time to plant--something about it being to hot and too little rain, but I was going to see this damn project through! On the plus side, I now have 3 new beds dug for next year, so I can start the whole process over again next February!
I'll skim over two of the beds I made that were not so successful (not so successful might be an understatement) and just write about my "bulb garden."
It's Sunday night, Jeremy and I are finally sitting on the porch, relaxing and having a beer. Jeremy says, "It'll be a miracle if anything comes up in that bed besides weeds."
Returning to Sunday morning, it's already upper 80s but I decided I had to get the bed made for my bulbs. Half of them were starting to rot in the bags and the other half were already sprouting. And that was in a dark cupboard in the house. So out I go with my spade. I will just briefly say that there should be a law in Georgia against me operating a spade. I started out working in the shade, which, okay, was still hot as hell. An hour later, I had maybe one edge along the guest house dug up. Every time I sank the stupid spade into the ground, I'd hit a brick. The process went something like this:
1) Me standing on a spade that is not sinking in to the ground
2) Me swaying and spiraling around on the spade like it's some sort of amusement park ride before falling off the spade, which if I was lucky, was now 1 inch into the ground.
3) Me getting back on the spade and repeating the process
4) Me hitting a brick--thud--causing the spade to immediately shoot away from me. Unfortunately, sometimes this meant it bounced into the side of the guest house and then back into me, which meant me falling off the spade again.
5) Me getting hot, chugging water, and running to the bathroom every 15 minutes
6) And repeat
Every so often, I'd actually manage to unearth a brick. After about an hour of this. I got really hot and decided I'd feel a lot cooler if I took off my shoes. That's when I discovered fire ants. Of course, I can't find the fire ant hill when I'm well protected. No, not me. After dancing around and frantically brushing off fire ants, I returned to my tilt-a-spade ride.
About an hour and a half of this went on when Jeremy finally came out to check my progress. By this point, there was no longer any shade at all, and I was a dripping, fire ant bitten, stinky mess. And still I had managed to dig up no more than about a tenth of my bulb bed. I have to admit, it was my fault that I was stuck digging up a flower bed on the hottest day of the year, so I really didn't feel I should complain about the heat. Instead, I complained about the fire ants. Informing Jeremy of my misfortune, I whined, "My feet are so itchy!"
"That's what you get for walking around without your shoes on," he replied. What? How'd he know? Where's the sympathy? I looked down at my feet. My shoes were on. There was no way he could know I had taken them off, so I told him "I have my sandals on (note the "subtle" word play. I didn't say had them on. . .). They just started swarming all over my feet!"
Jeremy looked at me skeptically. I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me but decided it might be better to act like he did. But that was about all he did before he went back inside, and I continued my inept spade work.
After about another hour, Jeremy came back outside. I think he finally took pity on me because he had a shovel this time. In about half an hour, the whole bed was done. Of course, he took the easy part that had no bricks stuck under it, which is why it took him no time at all to do the other 9/10th of the bed (this is my view anyway, and I'm always right, so. . .).
By the time the bed was finally dug up, it was midafternoon, and I needed a break. I decided the best thing to do was clean up, cool off, and wait till it cooled off in the evening to plant the bulbs. It was a good idea at the time.
Evening rolls around, and I gather all my bulbs. Meticulously and carefully, I begin planting all the bulbs, trying to arrange them perfectly so that all the different kinds are intermingled evenly. This meticulousness also meant that I was planting them very slowly. The next thing I know it's starting to get dark, and I still have over 100 bulbs to plant. That was pretty much when I just said screw it. I wanted to be done with this whole project that day. So, I developed a new planting method:
a) Scrape back a pile of dirt
b) Drop in a buttload of bulbs
c) Make a half-assed attempt at covering them
d) Move over a few inches and repeat.
Needless to say, all 100+ bulbs were planted, albiet not very well, in a matter of minutes. Some of them still poked above the ground. Others all you had to do was accidentally brush the dirt and there were the bulbs. I didn't care. I was done.
Jeremy joined me. I was satified. He was shaking his head again. He was positive that there was no way anything was going to grow in my bulb garden. I didn't care. All I cared about was that I had completed my project. Not a single plant or bulb (well none of the ones that were still living) remained--all were stuck in dirt.
Two weeks later, Jeremy came into the house looking incredulous.
"What?" I asked.
"Have you looked at your bulb garden lately?" Of course I hadn't. It was done. I was done. I was pretty sure Jeremy was right and nothing was going to grow, so why bother looking at dirt.
"Nope, why?"
"Go look at it. I don't know how you managed that. I don't know why either." I went outside. Little sprouts were shooting up everywhere. Granted, I know a lot of the bulbs didn't make it, and granted, none of them actually flowered this year, but wait til next year!
I turned around and looked at Jeremy.
"I guess I'll have to buy a few more bulbs next year. I should probably put some foliage plants in there too. I could get some more plant seeds. Maybe some flower seeds too--daisies! I should do some more reasearch and figure out what other kinds of flowers to plant!"
Jeremy just remained silent.
I imagine you're already thinking "a landscaping project in July? No one plants anything in July." However, you are so wrong. I plant things in July. Granted, it was not really by choice--it was more that I pretty much had to do something with what was left of the plants I started in February. After all that work with the seeds, and the watering, and the plant tending, I had to have something to show for my landscaping project effort!
So, it's a Sunday in early July. Lucky me, it happens to be one of the hottest Sundays of the whole summer--somewhere around 101 + heat index. And what am I doing? Planting what's left of my plants. I'd venture a guess that of all the seeds I started and all the bulbs I ordered, probably only about 1/3 of them survived to July, when I finally got around to planting what was left. Of the plants that were still living, I'd venture a guess that roughly 10 survived. Alright, so I knew July was a bad time to plant--something about it being to hot and too little rain, but I was going to see this damn project through! On the plus side, I now have 3 new beds dug for next year, so I can start the whole process over again next February!
I'll skim over two of the beds I made that were not so successful (not so successful might be an understatement) and just write about my "bulb garden."
It's Sunday night, Jeremy and I are finally sitting on the porch, relaxing and having a beer. Jeremy says, "It'll be a miracle if anything comes up in that bed besides weeds."
Returning to Sunday morning, it's already upper 80s but I decided I had to get the bed made for my bulbs. Half of them were starting to rot in the bags and the other half were already sprouting. And that was in a dark cupboard in the house. So out I go with my spade. I will just briefly say that there should be a law in Georgia against me operating a spade. I started out working in the shade, which, okay, was still hot as hell. An hour later, I had maybe one edge along the guest house dug up. Every time I sank the stupid spade into the ground, I'd hit a brick. The process went something like this:
1) Me standing on a spade that is not sinking in to the ground
2) Me swaying and spiraling around on the spade like it's some sort of amusement park ride before falling off the spade, which if I was lucky, was now 1 inch into the ground.
3) Me getting back on the spade and repeating the process
4) Me hitting a brick--thud--causing the spade to immediately shoot away from me. Unfortunately, sometimes this meant it bounced into the side of the guest house and then back into me, which meant me falling off the spade again.
5) Me getting hot, chugging water, and running to the bathroom every 15 minutes
6) And repeat
Every so often, I'd actually manage to unearth a brick. After about an hour of this. I got really hot and decided I'd feel a lot cooler if I took off my shoes. That's when I discovered fire ants. Of course, I can't find the fire ant hill when I'm well protected. No, not me. After dancing around and frantically brushing off fire ants, I returned to my tilt-a-spade ride.
About an hour and a half of this went on when Jeremy finally came out to check my progress. By this point, there was no longer any shade at all, and I was a dripping, fire ant bitten, stinky mess. And still I had managed to dig up no more than about a tenth of my bulb bed. I have to admit, it was my fault that I was stuck digging up a flower bed on the hottest day of the year, so I really didn't feel I should complain about the heat. Instead, I complained about the fire ants. Informing Jeremy of my misfortune, I whined, "My feet are so itchy!"
"That's what you get for walking around without your shoes on," he replied. What? How'd he know? Where's the sympathy? I looked down at my feet. My shoes were on. There was no way he could know I had taken them off, so I told him "I have my sandals on (note the "subtle" word play. I didn't say had them on. . .). They just started swarming all over my feet!"
Jeremy looked at me skeptically. I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me but decided it might be better to act like he did. But that was about all he did before he went back inside, and I continued my inept spade work.
After about another hour, Jeremy came back outside. I think he finally took pity on me because he had a shovel this time. In about half an hour, the whole bed was done. Of course, he took the easy part that had no bricks stuck under it, which is why it took him no time at all to do the other 9/10th of the bed (this is my view anyway, and I'm always right, so. . .).
By the time the bed was finally dug up, it was midafternoon, and I needed a break. I decided the best thing to do was clean up, cool off, and wait till it cooled off in the evening to plant the bulbs. It was a good idea at the time.
Evening rolls around, and I gather all my bulbs. Meticulously and carefully, I begin planting all the bulbs, trying to arrange them perfectly so that all the different kinds are intermingled evenly. This meticulousness also meant that I was planting them very slowly. The next thing I know it's starting to get dark, and I still have over 100 bulbs to plant. That was pretty much when I just said screw it. I wanted to be done with this whole project that day. So, I developed a new planting method:
a) Scrape back a pile of dirt
b) Drop in a buttload of bulbs
c) Make a half-assed attempt at covering them
d) Move over a few inches and repeat.
Needless to say, all 100+ bulbs were planted, albiet not very well, in a matter of minutes. Some of them still poked above the ground. Others all you had to do was accidentally brush the dirt and there were the bulbs. I didn't care. I was done.
Jeremy joined me. I was satified. He was shaking his head again. He was positive that there was no way anything was going to grow in my bulb garden. I didn't care. All I cared about was that I had completed my project. Not a single plant or bulb (well none of the ones that were still living) remained--all were stuck in dirt.
Two weeks later, Jeremy came into the house looking incredulous.
"What?" I asked.
"Have you looked at your bulb garden lately?" Of course I hadn't. It was done. I was done. I was pretty sure Jeremy was right and nothing was going to grow, so why bother looking at dirt.
"Nope, why?"
"Go look at it. I don't know how you managed that. I don't know why either." I went outside. Little sprouts were shooting up everywhere. Granted, I know a lot of the bulbs didn't make it, and granted, none of them actually flowered this year, but wait til next year!
I turned around and looked at Jeremy.
"I guess I'll have to buy a few more bulbs next year. I should probably put some foliage plants in there too. I could get some more plant seeds. Maybe some flower seeds too--daisies! I should do some more reasearch and figure out what other kinds of flowers to plant!"
Jeremy just remained silent.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Miscommunication & Communication
Vehicle one had a load of tree branches and an ugly, old bathroom vanity that had been sitting on our back porch for the past year (don't ask about the progress, but the bathroom now has a quarter of a floor in place) loaded into the back. Vehicle two had a dead battery. Vehicle three was the beloved Porsche that I have never been allowed to drive (someone claims I drive too fast). Vehicle three was the only driveable vehicle.
Now, this wouldn't have been so bad if I had not realized I was out of a certain ingredient for a dessert I was making for a Lion's Club cookout that night. It also would not have been so bad if both Jeremy and I had not already had really bad/busy work days, and it was not already 3 in the afternoon (which also meant that I was running the oven, and the kitchen was now a steamy 93 degrees). And, probably, it would not have been so bad if I could have put a little perspective on the situation, and realized I really didn't need to make the raspberry sauce for the chocolate cheesecake. However, none of these things actually happened. Instead. . .
"Crap (insert slightly more offensive word here)! I don't have a vehicle to drive!" I was in a tizzy about not having any raspberries (of course, I haven't yet told Jeremy what the missing ingredient actually was) and burst into the bedroom where he was out cold, exhausted. Well, he wasn't out cold anymore.
"There's the truck and the porsche," he complained, irritated (okay, irritated is an understatement. He was pretty much grumpy and furious about being woken up, especially after the day he'd already had). "We can drive one of those. Why the hell are you waking me up about this now?" This last part, he mumbled angrily as he raced out of the bedroom and away from me. Granted, this is normally the correct response because when I'm all worked up about something as important as raspberries, it is best for both of our sanity that we do not spend any more time together than necessary -- at least enough time apart for me to realize how I might be, slightly, blowing things out of proportion.
Unfortunately, this only made me madder. I looked out the window and fumed. I was stuck driving the truck around town with its load of unsecured, yes, unsecured, crap. I walked out to the truck, jiggled the bathroom vanity, and figured it was wedged in good enough for me to drive the mile to Piglet.
So, off I went, very slowly making my way to the grocery store. Of course, Piglet had no rasperries--none in the frozen section, none in the freezer section. Now I was really stewing. I was stuck with this truck and no raspberries, and the only way I could get raspberries was to drive 20 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart. I realized there was no way I could do this hauling half a tree and a giant bathroom vanity, so I headed for home, resigned.
Now, I probably would have given up on the whole raspberry issue if it weren't for the next chain of events. Crawling down the road at 30 miles per hour, I suddenly hear Crash! Bam! Thud! Yep, the bathroom vanity had departed the vehicle and was now lying in pieces on the road, causing a traffic jam in 100 degree weather. I had been angry before, but now I was irate. I apologize to the nice man who helped me load the thing back into the truck, but I don't think I said anything to him other than "thank you." I just marched my vanity pieces back to the truck and jammed them in wherever I could find room.
Creeping home at about 10 miles per hour, I was now on a mission. I was getting those raspberries no matter what. For about five minutes, I thought about taking the porsche, knowing Jeremy would freak (even though he was the one who suggested it). Then I decided I was in way too bad of a mood to drive a car that can reach 100 mph in less than 2 seconds and keep on accelerating. Instead, I found a pair of jumper cables, jumped my car, and was off to Wal-Mart.
$100 later (apparently shopping, even if it is at Wal-Mart, is very cathartic), I arrived home to find Jeremy sitting on the porch. He had had no clue that I meant I needed a vehicle to drive right away. He had thought I was just saying we had nothing to drive that night to Lion's Club and couldn't figure out why I was freaking out. Additionally, he seemed rather incredulous that I hadn't bothered to fasten any of the stuff in truck's back end (how was I supposed to know? He never mentioned this little tidbit when he suggested that I drive the truck), but completely unsurprised that the vanity had taken a little trip down the road.
Later that night, sitting on the porch after our strenuous day, we finally relaxed and enjoyed some stimulating conversation. The cicadas (also called heat bugs here) were out in full force, almost drowning us out.
"What's the difference between a cicada and a locust? Are they the same thing?" I asked Jeremy.
"No. Locusts are big grasshopper things that swarm and eat crops."
"Why do the cicadas always quit buzzing when it gets dark?"
"I don't know."
"Do bugs sleep?"
"How am I supposed to know? Google it."
"You're supposed to know everything," I calmly replied. This is my response to any question he can't answer.
"Why in the world would I know if bugs sleep?"
"Because it's important, bug related news," I informed him.
"Alright, if you google it and come up with a news article that says 'Important, breaking news about bugs sleeping,' I'll concede your point."
I briefly contemplated how hard it would be to find an article on Google with those exact words. Bugs sleeping I was sure I could find info on, but pretty sure it would never contain the words 'Important news.' Somehow, my mind wandered again. I asked Jeremy a few more things, and suddenly, the only response I was getting from him was: "yup, yup, yup."
"You sound like that one alien on Bert and Ernie."
"Are you calling me an alien?"
"No, you just sound like him. Remember them?"
"Yup. There were two."
"Yes! And they both made different noises! What did the other one say?"
"How should I know? Where do you keep coming up with this stuff?"
"See," I responded, "another important piece of information you should, but don't know. Was it 'yip?'"
"I don't have a clue."
At that point, I think he was pretty much done with the conversation. Yet I continued to ponder Sesame Street, and then the Muppets.
"Why were some characters on Sesame Street and some characters on the Muppets, but very few on both?"
"I have no clue." He is just not very well informed at all!
"Like Grover. I think Grover was on both, but you rarely saw Kermit on Sesame Street or Big Bird on the Muppets."
"Google it," Jeremy replied.
For some reason, I have started considering Jeremy as the human Google, so I was very disappointed with this response. I guess their are limitations to his knowledge, even if he usually refuses to admit this fact. Still on my Sesame Street/Muppets mindset, I next found myself trying to remember the name of Oscar the Grouch's worm friend.
"Wormy," I said, out of the blue.
"Wormy? Why are you calling me by my old nickname?"
"I'm not. Wormy. Wasn't that the name of Oscar's little worm friend?" For some reason, Jeremy decides to contemplate this character more seriously.
"Was he a worm or a caterpillar?"
"I don't know. I remember he was striped. Light orange and dark orange stripes."
"That sounds more like a caterpillar," Jeremy said.
"It might have been. He never talked. He just inched around on strings."
"You will have to Google Oscar's nontalking friend then and find out what his name is."
"I might get Snuffalupagus though if I do that."
"Snuffalupagus?" I'm sure, by now, Jeremy really wasn't wanting to ask about Snuffalupagus, but for some reason, felt compelled to do so.
"Yes, Snuffalupagus. That was Big Bird's invisible friend. I guess he did talk, but noboby else ever saw him except Big Bird."
Silence. It's dark and the cicadas are all quiet.
"I guess you'll just have to Google sleeping bug alien nontalking muppet friends," Jeremy said.
"I can't Google all of those together!"
"Why not?"
"Hmmm. I guess I could. It might bring up some interesting combinations!" I contemplated the possibilities of what could come up with that search.
"What was the search string again?" I asked Jeremy, having forgotten at least half the words he strung together.
"I think it's time for bed," was his only response.
Now, this wouldn't have been so bad if I had not realized I was out of a certain ingredient for a dessert I was making for a Lion's Club cookout that night. It also would not have been so bad if both Jeremy and I had not already had really bad/busy work days, and it was not already 3 in the afternoon (which also meant that I was running the oven, and the kitchen was now a steamy 93 degrees). And, probably, it would not have been so bad if I could have put a little perspective on the situation, and realized I really didn't need to make the raspberry sauce for the chocolate cheesecake. However, none of these things actually happened. Instead. . .
"Crap (insert slightly more offensive word here)! I don't have a vehicle to drive!" I was in a tizzy about not having any raspberries (of course, I haven't yet told Jeremy what the missing ingredient actually was) and burst into the bedroom where he was out cold, exhausted. Well, he wasn't out cold anymore.
"There's the truck and the porsche," he complained, irritated (okay, irritated is an understatement. He was pretty much grumpy and furious about being woken up, especially after the day he'd already had). "We can drive one of those. Why the hell are you waking me up about this now?" This last part, he mumbled angrily as he raced out of the bedroom and away from me. Granted, this is normally the correct response because when I'm all worked up about something as important as raspberries, it is best for both of our sanity that we do not spend any more time together than necessary -- at least enough time apart for me to realize how I might be, slightly, blowing things out of proportion.
Unfortunately, this only made me madder. I looked out the window and fumed. I was stuck driving the truck around town with its load of unsecured, yes, unsecured, crap. I walked out to the truck, jiggled the bathroom vanity, and figured it was wedged in good enough for me to drive the mile to Piglet.
So, off I went, very slowly making my way to the grocery store. Of course, Piglet had no rasperries--none in the frozen section, none in the freezer section. Now I was really stewing. I was stuck with this truck and no raspberries, and the only way I could get raspberries was to drive 20 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart. I realized there was no way I could do this hauling half a tree and a giant bathroom vanity, so I headed for home, resigned.
Now, I probably would have given up on the whole raspberry issue if it weren't for the next chain of events. Crawling down the road at 30 miles per hour, I suddenly hear Crash! Bam! Thud! Yep, the bathroom vanity had departed the vehicle and was now lying in pieces on the road, causing a traffic jam in 100 degree weather. I had been angry before, but now I was irate. I apologize to the nice man who helped me load the thing back into the truck, but I don't think I said anything to him other than "thank you." I just marched my vanity pieces back to the truck and jammed them in wherever I could find room.
Creeping home at about 10 miles per hour, I was now on a mission. I was getting those raspberries no matter what. For about five minutes, I thought about taking the porsche, knowing Jeremy would freak (even though he was the one who suggested it). Then I decided I was in way too bad of a mood to drive a car that can reach 100 mph in less than 2 seconds and keep on accelerating. Instead, I found a pair of jumper cables, jumped my car, and was off to Wal-Mart.
$100 later (apparently shopping, even if it is at Wal-Mart, is very cathartic), I arrived home to find Jeremy sitting on the porch. He had had no clue that I meant I needed a vehicle to drive right away. He had thought I was just saying we had nothing to drive that night to Lion's Club and couldn't figure out why I was freaking out. Additionally, he seemed rather incredulous that I hadn't bothered to fasten any of the stuff in truck's back end (how was I supposed to know? He never mentioned this little tidbit when he suggested that I drive the truck), but completely unsurprised that the vanity had taken a little trip down the road.
Later that night, sitting on the porch after our strenuous day, we finally relaxed and enjoyed some stimulating conversation. The cicadas (also called heat bugs here) were out in full force, almost drowning us out.
"What's the difference between a cicada and a locust? Are they the same thing?" I asked Jeremy.
"No. Locusts are big grasshopper things that swarm and eat crops."
"Why do the cicadas always quit buzzing when it gets dark?"
"I don't know."
"Do bugs sleep?"
"How am I supposed to know? Google it."
"You're supposed to know everything," I calmly replied. This is my response to any question he can't answer.
"Why in the world would I know if bugs sleep?"
"Because it's important, bug related news," I informed him.
"Alright, if you google it and come up with a news article that says 'Important, breaking news about bugs sleeping,' I'll concede your point."
I briefly contemplated how hard it would be to find an article on Google with those exact words. Bugs sleeping I was sure I could find info on, but pretty sure it would never contain the words 'Important news.' Somehow, my mind wandered again. I asked Jeremy a few more things, and suddenly, the only response I was getting from him was: "yup, yup, yup."
"You sound like that one alien on Bert and Ernie."
"Are you calling me an alien?"
"No, you just sound like him. Remember them?"
"Yup. There were two."
"Yes! And they both made different noises! What did the other one say?"
"How should I know? Where do you keep coming up with this stuff?"
"See," I responded, "another important piece of information you should, but don't know. Was it 'yip?'"
"I don't have a clue."
At that point, I think he was pretty much done with the conversation. Yet I continued to ponder Sesame Street, and then the Muppets.
"Why were some characters on Sesame Street and some characters on the Muppets, but very few on both?"
"I have no clue." He is just not very well informed at all!
"Like Grover. I think Grover was on both, but you rarely saw Kermit on Sesame Street or Big Bird on the Muppets."
"Google it," Jeremy replied.
For some reason, I have started considering Jeremy as the human Google, so I was very disappointed with this response. I guess their are limitations to his knowledge, even if he usually refuses to admit this fact. Still on my Sesame Street/Muppets mindset, I next found myself trying to remember the name of Oscar the Grouch's worm friend.
"Wormy," I said, out of the blue.
"Wormy? Why are you calling me by my old nickname?"
"I'm not. Wormy. Wasn't that the name of Oscar's little worm friend?" For some reason, Jeremy decides to contemplate this character more seriously.
"Was he a worm or a caterpillar?"
"I don't know. I remember he was striped. Light orange and dark orange stripes."
"That sounds more like a caterpillar," Jeremy said.
"It might have been. He never talked. He just inched around on strings."
"You will have to Google Oscar's nontalking friend then and find out what his name is."
"I might get Snuffalupagus though if I do that."
"Snuffalupagus?" I'm sure, by now, Jeremy really wasn't wanting to ask about Snuffalupagus, but for some reason, felt compelled to do so.
"Yes, Snuffalupagus. That was Big Bird's invisible friend. I guess he did talk, but noboby else ever saw him except Big Bird."
Silence. It's dark and the cicadas are all quiet.
"I guess you'll just have to Google sleeping bug alien nontalking muppet friends," Jeremy said.
"I can't Google all of those together!"
"Why not?"
"Hmmm. I guess I could. It might bring up some interesting combinations!" I contemplated the possibilities of what could come up with that search.
"What was the search string again?" I asked Jeremy, having forgotten at least half the words he strung together.
"I think it's time for bed," was his only response.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Unappreciated Genius
Jeremy is so pessimistic. Any time I come up with an ingenious idea, he just stomps it flat. As former Catholic Bishop Fulton J. Sheen said, "Jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius." Obviously, as you will see, he is just jealous of my ideas, wishing he would have thought of them first.
For example, my latest idea was grilled pizza. I have the crusts and all the ingredients, but running the oven means heating up the kitchen to the point where it feels we are residing in one of Dante's rings of hell (I think it's the one for greed--we are coveting our neighbor's air conditioning). So I had a brilliant idea--grill the pizza!
"No," Jeremy said as soon as I vocalized my ingenious plan.
"Why not? I could just put the grill on low, pop the pizza on a pan, and in 10 minutes, viola! Pizza and no hot kitchen!" I'm very thrilled about this prospect, but what do I get?
"No. Don't do it."
"Why not?"
"It won't work." Mr. pessimistic jealous man again.
"Why not?"
"Have you ever heard of anyone grilling anything in layers before?"
I ponder this a moment. Hmmm. "Well, no. Wait! I did grill eggplant parmesan in a pan before!" At least I think I did.
"Don't do it."
"But--" He cut me off.
"Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it." Great. He has a new mantra.
"You know, when you tell me not to do something, it just makes me want to do it more."
Jeremy sighed. "If you're going to do it, wait til sometime when I'm gone. Wait til I have to go back to Winston so I don't have to eat the thing."
But I know I won't do that. If I do, then I can't share my pizza grilling success and rub it in his face (I know this will work, just like most of my other ideas--well, they worked in my head anyway). So, at some point within the next week or so, I know I will be trying to grill a pizza, despite Jeremy's pessimistic view that it won't work. You never know until you try, right?
Granted, some ideas do not work out so well. Like the other night. I needed to get the sprayer back on a running hose. I looked at it, figured I'd get a little wet, but how hard could it really be? Jeremy immediately looked at me and said, "Do you need me to go back and turn the water off?"
"No," I replied. "I can get it." Now, part of this was his own fault. Whenever we work on projects together, no matter how small, he usually ends up irritated with me. This time, we were trying to fit a hose through a little spot in the foundation, and run it under the house and back to the faucet. This meant that Jeremy had to crawl under the house in the back, crawl through tons of spiders and who knows what all else, in the heat, grab the hose, and pull it to the back of the house.
Now, I'm not the greatest with following even the smallest verbal project directions. I try, but somehow what he tells me and what I hear are two, completely different things. I think this time Jeremy was using to many vague pronouns (at least that's what I told him). So when he told me I needed to unattatch everything from "this hose," I assumed he meant I needed to take the sprayer off the hose. That was my first mistake. "This hose" did not refer to the entire clump of hoses, but rather to one, particular hose. So, in reality, all he wanted me to do was detatch one hose from the other (I don't know why he just didn't say this). In the end, my messup ended up meaning he had to crawl back under the house a second time, and that pretty much fried any patience he had. (We won't even get into me trying to tell him something while he was already under the house and couldn't hear me.)
So, that brings us back to reattaching the sprayer. Looking at my irritable husband, I decided it was a far better idea just to put the sprayer back on (the sprayer that never needed to come off in the first place) while it was running, instead of sending him all the way to the backyard to turn the water off.
This was a mistake. The next thing I know, I am soaked from head to foot and the sprayer is still not back on the hose. I just stand there for a little bit, dripping and look at him. He's now laughing his butt off, so at least he's no longer irritated. "I think maybe you need to shut the water off," I told him.
"Really?" Mr. Smartass replied. But, as you can see, this particular idea, the one that didn't work, was entirely his fault anyway, so it should not reflect badly, whatsoever, on my own genius.
But, it's not just the grilled pizza idea he's dumped on, but tons of other brilliant ideas that I've had over the years. For example, my idea for a self washing car. It would just have little wiper type things with cloth, instead of blades, mounted at various places on the car. Then, when you push a button, they come out, run along little tracks or something, and clean the car. Did he think this was a good idea? No, of course not.
Then there was my idea for saving cities money on electricity. Paint companies would just design special, glow in the dark, outdoor paint. People would paint their houses, they would glow in the dark, and suddenly, you no longer need all those big street lights! Genius! Again, he found this idea flawed. The same with the clap on faucet, the net hung under the pecan tree branches that would collect all the nuts and keep them from dropping on our head if we wanted a seating area there, and . . .
The other night, we were sitting on the front porch, talking about doing something to the outside of the house. I had another genius idea!
"We could--" I started excitedly.
"No." Jeremy said. He didn't even give me a chance to say what my idea was, and, sadly, I seem to have lost the idea. It's all his fault. I know it was good, and, eventually, it will come back, but for now, he might have cost me my most valuable idea yet!
For example, my latest idea was grilled pizza. I have the crusts and all the ingredients, but running the oven means heating up the kitchen to the point where it feels we are residing in one of Dante's rings of hell (I think it's the one for greed--we are coveting our neighbor's air conditioning). So I had a brilliant idea--grill the pizza!
"No," Jeremy said as soon as I vocalized my ingenious plan.
"Why not? I could just put the grill on low, pop the pizza on a pan, and in 10 minutes, viola! Pizza and no hot kitchen!" I'm very thrilled about this prospect, but what do I get?
"No. Don't do it."
"Why not?"
"It won't work." Mr. pessimistic jealous man again.
"Why not?"
"Have you ever heard of anyone grilling anything in layers before?"
I ponder this a moment. Hmmm. "Well, no. Wait! I did grill eggplant parmesan in a pan before!" At least I think I did.
"Don't do it."
"But--" He cut me off.
"Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it." Great. He has a new mantra.
"You know, when you tell me not to do something, it just makes me want to do it more."
Jeremy sighed. "If you're going to do it, wait til sometime when I'm gone. Wait til I have to go back to Winston so I don't have to eat the thing."
But I know I won't do that. If I do, then I can't share my pizza grilling success and rub it in his face (I know this will work, just like most of my other ideas--well, they worked in my head anyway). So, at some point within the next week or so, I know I will be trying to grill a pizza, despite Jeremy's pessimistic view that it won't work. You never know until you try, right?
Granted, some ideas do not work out so well. Like the other night. I needed to get the sprayer back on a running hose. I looked at it, figured I'd get a little wet, but how hard could it really be? Jeremy immediately looked at me and said, "Do you need me to go back and turn the water off?"
"No," I replied. "I can get it." Now, part of this was his own fault. Whenever we work on projects together, no matter how small, he usually ends up irritated with me. This time, we were trying to fit a hose through a little spot in the foundation, and run it under the house and back to the faucet. This meant that Jeremy had to crawl under the house in the back, crawl through tons of spiders and who knows what all else, in the heat, grab the hose, and pull it to the back of the house.
Now, I'm not the greatest with following even the smallest verbal project directions. I try, but somehow what he tells me and what I hear are two, completely different things. I think this time Jeremy was using to many vague pronouns (at least that's what I told him). So when he told me I needed to unattatch everything from "this hose," I assumed he meant I needed to take the sprayer off the hose. That was my first mistake. "This hose" did not refer to the entire clump of hoses, but rather to one, particular hose. So, in reality, all he wanted me to do was detatch one hose from the other (I don't know why he just didn't say this). In the end, my messup ended up meaning he had to crawl back under the house a second time, and that pretty much fried any patience he had. (We won't even get into me trying to tell him something while he was already under the house and couldn't hear me.)
So, that brings us back to reattaching the sprayer. Looking at my irritable husband, I decided it was a far better idea just to put the sprayer back on (the sprayer that never needed to come off in the first place) while it was running, instead of sending him all the way to the backyard to turn the water off.
This was a mistake. The next thing I know, I am soaked from head to foot and the sprayer is still not back on the hose. I just stand there for a little bit, dripping and look at him. He's now laughing his butt off, so at least he's no longer irritated. "I think maybe you need to shut the water off," I told him.
"Really?" Mr. Smartass replied. But, as you can see, this particular idea, the one that didn't work, was entirely his fault anyway, so it should not reflect badly, whatsoever, on my own genius.
But, it's not just the grilled pizza idea he's dumped on, but tons of other brilliant ideas that I've had over the years. For example, my idea for a self washing car. It would just have little wiper type things with cloth, instead of blades, mounted at various places on the car. Then, when you push a button, they come out, run along little tracks or something, and clean the car. Did he think this was a good idea? No, of course not.
Then there was my idea for saving cities money on electricity. Paint companies would just design special, glow in the dark, outdoor paint. People would paint their houses, they would glow in the dark, and suddenly, you no longer need all those big street lights! Genius! Again, he found this idea flawed. The same with the clap on faucet, the net hung under the pecan tree branches that would collect all the nuts and keep them from dropping on our head if we wanted a seating area there, and . . .
The other night, we were sitting on the front porch, talking about doing something to the outside of the house. I had another genius idea!
"We could--" I started excitedly.
"No." Jeremy said. He didn't even give me a chance to say what my idea was, and, sadly, I seem to have lost the idea. It's all his fault. I know it was good, and, eventually, it will come back, but for now, he might have cost me my most valuable idea yet!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Good Idea/Bad Idea
Okay, so it's now the end of June, and I still don't have all my flower beds made. I forgot a tiny thing. Well, it's not so much forgot, but didn't realize. I decided to teach 5 classes this summer. I thought, hey, no problem, since I teach 5 during the regular semester. What I forgot was that the summer session is only 5-10 weeks long, depending on whether I'm teaching first, second, or full summer session. So needless to say, once the regular semester finally ended, I had a week to pull everything together for the summer, and it's been a race to stay on top of things.
Last week, I looked around me. Tumblefur everywhere. There was no denying the house was in horrible need of some serious cleaning. Then I went back to my to do list and made a new one. At the top were the never-moving listings for "soot" and "flower beds." I sighed and added about 20 more things to the list.
I started working on the soot in April. Basically, since we used a kerosene heater for heat all winter, the kitchen walls are now covered with the grimy, gray coating of, well, soot. There's various colors, depending on how recently I got the wallpaper border removed (which, yay for me! I finally finished that project!). There are also places where the wallpaper border remover stuff ran down the wall, creating these lovely streaks of drippy soot. I like to think of it as "Modern" art--I call it "Painted Soot." Jeremy just looks at it and shakes his head. I did get most of the soot removed from about a third of the room. Then I sort of got busy. I like to think of it as an excellent portrayal of "before" and "after"--similar to those project photo shoots. Unfortunately, the after is staying around a little longer than anticipated.
I did get a few of the flower beds made, finally! I was very proud of myself. Again, there seems to be a negative side to this as well. For one, it was only a couple weeks ago that I got those done and only the ones in the front yard. I would say at least 50% of the seeds I started in February died. Okay, so it wasn't exactly the seeds that died, but the plants themselves after waiting for roughly 5 months to be planted. Then, right after I got my little tiny plants in out front, it got hot. I'm pretty much guessing another 50% of the plants died. I would say I've learned my lesson, but probably not. I still have about 2 trays of plants that need planted in the back yard, along with about 100 bulbs that I ordered. I keep meaning to make the flower beds for those, but it has just kept getting hotter and hotter (yesterday it was like 105 with the heat index). So instead, I end up on the front porch with a beer in the evening, thinking about the projects. I have to say, more people should do this--it's much cooler and there's a lot less swearing involved in that method.
Then there's the fur problem. I spent all day on Saturday cleaning the house. I swept all the floors, mopped all the floors, did dishes, cleaned the bathroom, organized things. . . I was a cleaning fool. Alright, so I was cleaning just to avoid grading more papers, but by the time I was done, the house looked a lot better! I can't say the same for the papers. . .
That's when I got this brilliant idea. Our cat is long haired, and since we don't have air in the house, I normally take her to get shaved when she starts shedding really bad. However, when I was at Wal-Mart, I saw a pet shaver for like $30. I had to buy it! That would save money year after year, since it usually costs anywhere from $30-$60 to get her shaved. I congratulated myself on my brilliance. Then I grabbed the cat when it was time to start. Really, it wouldn't have been so bad if it didn't take so long. But pretty much after about an hour of shaving her, she lost patience with the whole process, and there was nothing I could do to hold her still.
By the time I quit, I had managed to shave her entire back and most of her sides--but that left all the rest of her fur from lower sides down. Then I also noticed I missed a big clump right on her back end. She looked like some weird alien being with a bad haircut--a cat mullet. Topping it off was the one long clump of fur sticking straight off her butt in the back. I found a little bow and made a little ponytail out of the weird clump and watched her high"tail" it away from me. Then I got busy again--the end of the first 5 week summer session is this week. So basically, the cat's been roaming around the house for almost a week with her bad/half shave job. Maybe it would have been simpler just to take her to a groomer.
Yesterday, I finally decided I needed to do something about the mountain of dirty laundry that's been steadily growing in the bedroom. Since we are working on the master bath, we don't have a place to hook up the washer yet, which means I have to drive the laundry to the next town over to get it done. Which means I often try to ignore the huge mound of dirty clothes. The problem came last week when I had to buy new underwear. Suddenly, doing laundry became a priority. So I sorted everything, loaded it all up, rounded up my quarters, and headed out. I estimated I had about 5 loads of laundry to do, and that I had just enough quarters to do 5 loads of laundry. Well, I did have just enough. I was lost in thought about the water bill. It totaled $100 this month, and they were trying to convince us that we had used 31,700 gallons of water last month (as compared to our normal 2500 gallons. Turns out that despite the fact they claimed to have "reread" the meter, they didn't and were trying to charge us for our total water usage since we moved into the house). Anyway, distracted, I just started popping quarters into a row of 5 machines and turning them on. I opened the first and poured in detergent. I opened the second, and crap! Somebody's clean clothes were in there! I opened the 3rd and the 4th--same thing. Only the 5th was empty. A wonderfully intelligent move on my part, I was now paying to rewash 3 loads of someone else's clothes and now only had enought money for 2 loads. So, I sorted out the most essential (underwear of course) and washed my 2 loads. For now, the rest of the dirty laundry is doing some traveling. Stuck in the back of my car, it's now been to campus, to Wal-Mart, to Subway. . .
Yes, I probably should have gone and finished the rest of the laundry today, but instead I'm blogging. Once I'm finished with my blogging, I think I'm headed for the front porch with a beer. From there, I will enjoy Abbeville's fine entertainment. Maybe the 2 teenage boys in the golf cart with the duck whistle will be back following the not-so-impressed teenage girl out walking. Or maybe hairmetal SUV guy will be cruising around town playing Def Leppard or Ratt. Or maybe one of the numerous town drunks will be out tonight. Oh, the possibilities--as long as it doesn't involve me doing something badly, I'm set!
Last week, I looked around me. Tumblefur everywhere. There was no denying the house was in horrible need of some serious cleaning. Then I went back to my to do list and made a new one. At the top were the never-moving listings for "soot" and "flower beds." I sighed and added about 20 more things to the list.
I started working on the soot in April. Basically, since we used a kerosene heater for heat all winter, the kitchen walls are now covered with the grimy, gray coating of, well, soot. There's various colors, depending on how recently I got the wallpaper border removed (which, yay for me! I finally finished that project!). There are also places where the wallpaper border remover stuff ran down the wall, creating these lovely streaks of drippy soot. I like to think of it as "Modern" art--I call it "Painted Soot." Jeremy just looks at it and shakes his head. I did get most of the soot removed from about a third of the room. Then I sort of got busy. I like to think of it as an excellent portrayal of "before" and "after"--similar to those project photo shoots. Unfortunately, the after is staying around a little longer than anticipated.
I did get a few of the flower beds made, finally! I was very proud of myself. Again, there seems to be a negative side to this as well. For one, it was only a couple weeks ago that I got those done and only the ones in the front yard. I would say at least 50% of the seeds I started in February died. Okay, so it wasn't exactly the seeds that died, but the plants themselves after waiting for roughly 5 months to be planted. Then, right after I got my little tiny plants in out front, it got hot. I'm pretty much guessing another 50% of the plants died. I would say I've learned my lesson, but probably not. I still have about 2 trays of plants that need planted in the back yard, along with about 100 bulbs that I ordered. I keep meaning to make the flower beds for those, but it has just kept getting hotter and hotter (yesterday it was like 105 with the heat index). So instead, I end up on the front porch with a beer in the evening, thinking about the projects. I have to say, more people should do this--it's much cooler and there's a lot less swearing involved in that method.
Then there's the fur problem. I spent all day on Saturday cleaning the house. I swept all the floors, mopped all the floors, did dishes, cleaned the bathroom, organized things. . . I was a cleaning fool. Alright, so I was cleaning just to avoid grading more papers, but by the time I was done, the house looked a lot better! I can't say the same for the papers. . .
That's when I got this brilliant idea. Our cat is long haired, and since we don't have air in the house, I normally take her to get shaved when she starts shedding really bad. However, when I was at Wal-Mart, I saw a pet shaver for like $30. I had to buy it! That would save money year after year, since it usually costs anywhere from $30-$60 to get her shaved. I congratulated myself on my brilliance. Then I grabbed the cat when it was time to start. Really, it wouldn't have been so bad if it didn't take so long. But pretty much after about an hour of shaving her, she lost patience with the whole process, and there was nothing I could do to hold her still.
By the time I quit, I had managed to shave her entire back and most of her sides--but that left all the rest of her fur from lower sides down. Then I also noticed I missed a big clump right on her back end. She looked like some weird alien being with a bad haircut--a cat mullet. Topping it off was the one long clump of fur sticking straight off her butt in the back. I found a little bow and made a little ponytail out of the weird clump and watched her high"tail" it away from me. Then I got busy again--the end of the first 5 week summer session is this week. So basically, the cat's been roaming around the house for almost a week with her bad/half shave job. Maybe it would have been simpler just to take her to a groomer.
Yesterday, I finally decided I needed to do something about the mountain of dirty laundry that's been steadily growing in the bedroom. Since we are working on the master bath, we don't have a place to hook up the washer yet, which means I have to drive the laundry to the next town over to get it done. Which means I often try to ignore the huge mound of dirty clothes. The problem came last week when I had to buy new underwear. Suddenly, doing laundry became a priority. So I sorted everything, loaded it all up, rounded up my quarters, and headed out. I estimated I had about 5 loads of laundry to do, and that I had just enough quarters to do 5 loads of laundry. Well, I did have just enough. I was lost in thought about the water bill. It totaled $100 this month, and they were trying to convince us that we had used 31,700 gallons of water last month (as compared to our normal 2500 gallons. Turns out that despite the fact they claimed to have "reread" the meter, they didn't and were trying to charge us for our total water usage since we moved into the house). Anyway, distracted, I just started popping quarters into a row of 5 machines and turning them on. I opened the first and poured in detergent. I opened the second, and crap! Somebody's clean clothes were in there! I opened the 3rd and the 4th--same thing. Only the 5th was empty. A wonderfully intelligent move on my part, I was now paying to rewash 3 loads of someone else's clothes and now only had enought money for 2 loads. So, I sorted out the most essential (underwear of course) and washed my 2 loads. For now, the rest of the dirty laundry is doing some traveling. Stuck in the back of my car, it's now been to campus, to Wal-Mart, to Subway. . .
Yes, I probably should have gone and finished the rest of the laundry today, but instead I'm blogging. Once I'm finished with my blogging, I think I'm headed for the front porch with a beer. From there, I will enjoy Abbeville's fine entertainment. Maybe the 2 teenage boys in the golf cart with the duck whistle will be back following the not-so-impressed teenage girl out walking. Or maybe hairmetal SUV guy will be cruising around town playing Def Leppard or Ratt. Or maybe one of the numerous town drunks will be out tonight. Oh, the possibilities--as long as it doesn't involve me doing something badly, I'm set!
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