Purse Hell

It all started because I needed to replace the purse I've been using for the past 4 years.  Yes, I know, many women love purses.  I don’t understand purses.  Is it a recessive gene thing that just never surfaced?  All I wanted was one, small, black purse with a couple of small compartments I could shove the cards I carry and my cell into.  I don't need anything big because there's not a lot I carry with me.  Half the time, I just shove my cards in my back pocket and go.  

I began my foray into the nightmarish world of purses with a sampling of various sites that sell them.  Little did I know what I was getting into. For example, on Zappos.com, there was one section devoted to Bags and Handbags.  Okay, simple enough.  I click the link and suddenly there were like 50 more links!  How many “bags” does a person actually need?  Their heading, once you get into the “Bags & Handbags” section, is: “Bags & Handbags: It’s like having an extra set of hands.”  Really?  That just sounds creepy.  Now I’m imagining some sort of alien hand, sort of like the “baby” in Alien, exploding out of a purse waving my debit card around at a store.  Or maybe it’s Thing from The Addams Family jumping out and skittering around my car.

 

The first could be very bad, especially if it eviscerated people.  I’m not sure how you apologize for that one—“I’m sorry, my extra set of hands seems to be on a murderous rampage today.  I guess I should have brought the bag with the Hamburger Helper hand instead. Let me help you with those intestines.”  The second might be kind of fun, since Thing just kind of trotted around doing his (or is Thing a girl?) own thing.  Maybe I could freak people out enough that the one checkout line open at Wal-Mart would clear out so I could get through faster. 

But I digress, back to the categories.  Holy crap!  Just on Zappos, there were 5 subcategories under Bags & Handbags: Bags, Handbags, Travel Bags, Outdoor Bags, and Wallets.  And it was the same at every site I visited—mind-boggling purse & bag categories.  Who knew?  Where to start?  I scanned through all of the types under each category.   A hydration pack?  A Lumbar pack?  What in the heck were those?  My curiosity got the better of me, and I had to click the links.  Hmm, the hydration pack definitely did not fit my definition of a bag and was really not very interesting at all.

Here’s the hydration pack, basically a fanny pack that holds two water bottles.  As if the fanny pack wasn’t bad enough.  I guess I could see a use for this if I were athletic.  But I’m not.  The only place I’d have to wear this would be in my walk to the mailbox or to my car, and I’m pretty sure neither requires two bottles of water for the trip.  Plus, this ugly thing costs $42!!!  I think I’ve just discovered my new get rich scheme.  I’ll just buy a bunch of cheap fanny packs, attach some cheap cupholders, drink the water out of some Perrier bottles, and voila!  With the Perrier bottles, people will look cultured while wearing their hydration packs, so I think I could sell them for at least $50.  For a measly $800 and the ultimate hydration pack couture and sophistication, I’ll drink two bottles of Dom Perignon and pop them in (hey, somebody has to offset the cost of the Dom I’m drinking).   

Then there was the lumbar pack.  No details were really given, except for the features.  Apparently, this little beauty lets you “ditch” the hydration pack.  I spent (wasted) far too much time studying the lumbar pack (okay, so it was only about 2 minutes, but still. . . ), the only thing I could determine was that 1) it had completely enclosed compartments for the water bottles and 2) it was yet another fanny pack, only this one sold for a mere $55.  I thought about devising another get rich scheme, but really, when you’ve developed one fanny/hydration/lumbar pack, you’ve pretty much designed too many.

My venture into the world of purses, so far, had been a miss.  While they may be clumped into the purse and bag category, my initial explorations simply did not fit into my view of a purse.  Never a quitter, I soldiered on, valiantly clicking links for hobos (apparently not a homeless, migrant type with a handkerchief bundle on a stick hopping the rails), satchels, clutches, evening bags, totes, shoulder bags, fabric bags, leather bags, occasion bags, messenger bags. . .  Sigh.  No one seemed to be selling the bag I was really looking for, the barf bag. What they were selling was a huge selection of really ugly, really expensive "bags."  The fact that someone actually designed and sold these bags for astronomical prices astounded me.  I found myself wondering if a person actually needed to know how to sew in order to be a designer because, if not, I felt pretty sure I could whip up 100s of designs over a weekend.  And, given the high ratings many of these bags had, there actually were people out there (color blind or just plain blind) who would buy them!  All I would need would be a $10 investment in a few art supplies, then when people ask me what I do, I could say "I design handbags."  Maybe I could get my mom to make them-- after all, she was the only reason I passed the sewing part of home ec in high school. 

I decided, after looking at page after page of purses, that I should really share some of the best.  So, without further ado, here are some of my absolute favorite finds.

Amerileather Multicolor Kaleidoscope Tote: $63.99 

Yay!  Only $64 for, well, a gaudy, plastic colored disc covered purse.  Supposedly, it's actually made out of leather.  Somewhere, a cow is screaming for vengeance.  This little number is for the "girl" (for some reason, purse descriptions like to appeal to girls and not women--my guess is because "girls" are more likely to make really stupid choices, like spending $64 on some child's art project) whose really into Joseph's Technicolor Dreamcoat, but can't actually afford the coat.  Or possibly the girl who always wanted a purse that looks like some bizarro fish coughed up its scales on it.  Hint: if you take a spoon to it, the scales'll pop right off.




Jessica Simpson 'Ruffle Me' Tote Handbag: $59.99

Where are the ruffles?  I see no ruffles.  What I do see is snakeskin.  Yep, the description confirmed it.  This delight's color is natural python, and it's made of pvc.  Nothing says high style like slinging a fake snakeskin purse (with no apparent ruffles) over your shoulder.  Now, I might be the only one, but snakes pretty much make me scream and run in the opposite direction, especially when they're hanging out of one of my dog's mouths.  Also, I'll just chalk this one up to Simpson's confusion: tuna=chicken, ruffles=snakes.






Ed Hardy 'Jolly Roger Anna' Tote Bag: Today $58.99

Nothing says pirate like swords, cannons, eye patches, and . . . a sequined purse with a "tattoo."  Even better is that you can also get it in gold lamé.  Would this make me look cool on Talk Like a Pirate Day?  And what the heck is a Jolly Roger Anna?  Was it supposed to be Jolly Pollyanna?  That would be a completely different thing, plus, she wasn't so jolly after she was paralyzed when she fell out of the tree.




Dolce and Gabbana Floral Print Canvas Tote Bag: $533.99 

Really?  $534 for something that looks like a horrendous, 1960s style couch upholstery?  Crap.  I really need to hit the thrift stores fast.  You can pick up whole couches there for really cheap and just strip the upholstery off them.  Who knew they could be such a goldmine!  And stupid me, I just gave my wealth away in college every time I moved and couldn't find a truck to borrow.  I better get on facebook and see if I can find the one roommate I bailed on after she quit paying rent (yes, it's always easier just to move out on a bad roommate than to kick them out).  To think I just left all that furniture there!  I'm so kicking myself now.






'Joyrider': $154.99

What is that thing stuck to the side of this purse?  I think it's a bunny head.  Or maybe an albino pig.  What woman--excuse me, girl--would want to carry a polka dotted monstrosity with a head popping off the front?  And look at the way it stares at you!  The eyes just follow you around the room.  You think you've escaped, and bam, you turn around and find your purse staring at you. I think the purse is stalking me! I'm gonna have nightmares about an albino rabbit/pig/mouse trying to kill me and take over my identity (it probably would be sorely disappointed because I'm not the most exciting person).  It could really happen, after all, the purse is an extra set of hands.  Maybe it's got the hands from Idle Hands inside, bent on murderous destruction.  It is called Joyrider--riders are the loa Gods in Voodoo that can take over humans, so it's probably a possessed purse.  And here you thought it was just a sickeningly sweet little handbag.  Well, now you know.


Rock Bag: $170 

Big Bird called.  He's extremely pissed off that you stole his feathers.  He'd really like them back and dyed back to their natural color.  Yet another baffling purse name.  Rock bag?  The designers do know what a rock is, right?  Solid, dense piece of compacted earth/minerals/lava that comes in various sizes?  Feathers are not so much a part of rocks, unless they're fossilized or you're decapitating poultry on a large, flat rock.  Do they mean rock and roll?  Again, I'm not sure how feathers go with rock music either, unless you're maybe going back to the 80s hair bands.  But, even so, they were much more into hairspray and makeup than feathers. Maybe they let Jessica Simpson name their purse.






Cheetah Bows $138 

At least this purse is exactly what it says it is.  It's got a delightful cheetah print with lovely red bows scattered across it.  Nothing says cute and cuddly quite like a large, predatory cat and bows.  Heck, stick bows on anything, and it just makes you want to snuggle it up.  In fact, I think I'm going to go find myself a grizzly bear and stick a bow on it.  I will love it, and hug it, and name it George.  What?  You say the bear will rip me apart?  That's just silly!  It can't with the bow on it.  Besides, I'll just let the alien hand out if things get nasty.



Well, we've come to the end of my guided tour of the House of Horrors . . . I mean purses.  I know that you are now so much more enlightened than you ever thought to be.  Keep an eye out for my new line of overpriced, hideous, er, I mean delightfully whimsical and sophisticated handbags coming to a store near you!  Maybe next time I'll give you an inside tour of the world of shoes, since I now need to replace most of mine (okay, roughly 4 pairs) because the puppy keeps eating them.

Where the Paved Road Ends

A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to take a new route home from work.  I meandered around looking for a new paved road to try and finally found one.  So I was driving along, looking at, well, mostly pine trees because that's pretty much most of rural Georgia.  All of a sudden I saw that my wonderful, poorly maintained, paved county road was about to end.  Of course, Jeremy told me that I should not take my Honda Fit on dirt roads, especially since it has tiny tires, is not 4 wheel drive, and has about 1 foot of clearance.  Of course, I figured the dirt road looked pretty good, so why not?  After all, it couldn't go on that long, and then I'd have to hit another paved road.  So after very little deliberation, off I went down the dirt road.

I was happily traveling along, when suddenly I came across a giant puddle (in retrospect, it might have been approaching small pond size) that stretched from one side of the road to the other.  I stopped briefly and pondered the puddle dilemma.  How deep could it actually be?  I thought.  I doubted it was very deep at all.  I didn't want to turn around and go all the way back either, so my logical conclusion was just to head to the side of the road and go on through.  As you have probably learned from numerous other posts, my logical conclusions are not always the best.

I put my foot down on the accelerator and eased over to the side of the road.  I was heading through the puddle, through the puddle . . . stuck.  In a puddle.  On the side of a dirt road that had very little traffic and was probably a good half hour from my home.  What to do.  I got out of my car, waded through puddle, turned around, and stared at my car.  Just as I was concluding that staring at my car from the road was not going to get me anywhere, I saw a school bus heading very rapidly toward the puddle I was now standing next to.  The school bus went through the puddle, and, as you can imagine, dirt road chic was what I ended up wearing.  It was not until that moment, dripping mud and puddle water, that I finally remembered I had my cell phone, so I waded back to the car and called Jeremy.

Jeremy: "This is Jeremy." --He always answers the phone like that.  I'm not sure why.  Who else would it be?  Not like any of the dogs are going to answer the phone and do anything besides breath really heavily.
Me: "It's me.  I have a little problem."
Jeremy: "What?"
Me: "I'm sort of stuck."
Jeremy: "You're stuck?  Where?  How did you get stuck?"
Me: "I tried to go through a puddle on a dirt road, and I got stuck."
Jeremy: silence. sigh.  "Didn't I tell you not to drive the Fit on dirt roads?"
Me: "Yes, but the paved road I was on ended, and the dirt road looked just fine when I got on it and. . ."

Jeremy: another long, loud sigh. "Where are you?"  See, this was yet another problem.  I was just meandering around roads, so I knew how I got to where I was, but not so much where I was.
Me: "I'm not sure."
Jeremy: "What do you mean you're not sure?  What did the road sign say?"
Me: "I decided to take a new way home, and when I turned onto the road, I didn't pay attention to what it was called."
Jeremy: "So, you are stuck in a puddle on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and you don't know where you are?"
Me: "Yes, that pretty much sums it up."

Jeremy: in a very disgruntled voice.  "Let me go find some stuff, and I'll head over in the truck.  What way do I need to go?"
Me: "You go . . . . and then you go. . .  and then you go. . ."
Jeremy: "Where?  What way were you going?  Where do I go after. . . ?"
Me: "I'm somewhere between Cochran, Easman, and Hawkinsville.  But I'm not quite sure where because the road kinda twisted around a little."
Jeremy: "Alright.  It's gonna take me at least 45 minutes to find you.  I'll give you a call when I start getting close."  Then I hear a click.  He's apparently a tiny bit perturbed with me.  Good thing he's got a drive ahead of him to cool down a bit.  He should just think of it as a new version of Where's Waldo?  Where's Lisa?  Maybe this will make him get me that GPS I've been wanting.

After Jeremy hung up, I started to get a little bored.  Contrary to what you might have thought, there really is not a whole lot to do when stuck on a secluded, dirt road.  I began contemplating just where exactly things went wrong, how much it was going to cost to get all the mud off my car at the car wash, and how very poorly designed Honda Fits are for mudding.  I basically decided that this was, in no way, my fault, but Honda's own design flaw.  I also wondered if it was feasible to add 4 wheel drive to a Fit.  As I was sitting there, suddenly, a beautiful, brilliant green John Deere tractor slowly pops up over the horizon and stops behind my Fit.

Mr. Tractor Driver:  "Looks like you're stuck.  Need a tow?"  I could comment on how Mr. Tractor Driver was so stating the obvious, but, really, what do you say to a person who submerges a good chunk of her very clearly non-dirt road friendly car?  I tried to explain my stupidity to Mr. Tractor Driver in a way that made me look slightly less inept, but really, there's no way to cover up that fact.

Mr. Tractor Driver: "I got a chain.  Had to pull somebody else out of there this morning."  I was instantly delighted.  Yay!  I wasn't the only one!  "You know," he continues, "It's much better in the middle.  If you had just gone through the middle of the puddle, you would have been fine."  Great.  Wonderful.  I had briefly thought about going through the middle, but no.  I had to pick the wrong way.  In so many different ways.  Mr. Tractor Driver hooked my car up, hopped in the cab, and within minutes, my little Fit was free!  I could finally head home!  I gave Jeremy a call quick to let him know he didn't have to come find me after all, and then I was off.

Later that night we were heading out of town.
"Stop at Shorty's first," Jeremy says, "I need a soda."  I head toward the dirt alley across from our back driveway.  "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to Shorty's," I reply.  Where else would I be going?
"You're not taking the Fit on another dirt road."
"It's an alley in town!  I am not going to get stuck in the alley behind the convenience store!"
"I don't care.  No more dirt roads for the Fit.  If you would have listened to me to begin with. . ."  I sigh and turn onto the street to take the paved roads to the convenience store.
"So, where are you not going to drive the Fit?" Jeremy asks in his I'm talking to a child tone of voice, which is very annoying.
"On dirt roads.  But what if it's been really dry?"
"No."
"But what if it's the only way to get somewhere?"
"No." 
"But--"
"No."
"You're no fun.  How am I supposed to find neat new roads to take?"
"That's what the truck is for.  That's why it has 4 wheel drive.  Not the Fit."
"But you never let me drive the truck."
"I did once, and you squealed the tires in the Home Depot parking lot."
"That was an accident.  I hadn't driven it before.  Does that mean I get to drive the truck more now?"
"No."

Guess it's back to figuring out if I can outfit the Fit with 4 wheel drive.  I bet it'd be the only one too!  Too bad I still have to watch out for armadillos.  I think that's why my mufflers a little rattly.

Random Conversations

The Shape of Things

Jeremy is obsessed with making the yard as green as possible, watering, fertilizing, more watering, moving sprinklers all across the yard, and most annoying to me, incessantly talking about the lawn and grass.

“Blah, blah, fertilizer, blah, blah, grass isn’t dark enough, blah, blah, should I fertilize again?”  Jeremy asks.

“I don’t know.  I know nothing about grass, other than it’s green.  Or brown like here in the summer.”

“I thought you said not to fertilize again.”

“I did?  Was I listening to you?  I don’t know.  You can if you want.  The yard looks like it’s pretty green to me.”

“What?  It looks like a large rhombus?”

“Like a large rhombus?  How’d you get that one?  I said. . .”

“I dunno.  I was just surprised that you used rhombus.”

“I know what a rhombus is.  Well, I know what the shape is.  I don’t know why it was important that I know how to calculate its area or volume.”

“You just divide it into two triangles,” Jeremy responds.

“I didn’t say I wanted to know how.  A rhombus is just a diamond anyway.  Why don’t they just call it a diamond?”

Jeremy just stares at me like I’m a dunce.  I don’t see what the big deal is.  Why make up a whole new name for a shape when an easier one already exists?  “I am not having this conversation,” Jeremy says.

“Well, it is just a diamond.”

“I said I wasn’t having this conversation.  I’m done with this one.”

“Besides, our yard isn’t a rhombus shape anyway.”

“That’s a tree,” Jeremy says.  Or at least that’s what I think he says, but I’m too busy contemplating the whole rhombus/diamond thing, and I think I missed half of what he said.

“No, that’s a cone.”

“What’s a cone?”  Jeremy asked, obviously confused.

“A tree is a cone,” I reply.

“How is a tree a cone?  A cone tree you mean?”

“No, a cone—as in if you enclosed a tree, it would be in a cone shape—well, an inverted one.”

“I am so done with this conversation too,” Jeremy says, taking a large drink of his beer.  That’s good because I didn’t really have much more to say about yard objects and geometry anyway.

The Sky is Falling

Jeremy’s walking down the stairs and happens to look up at the ceiling part of the landing.  He pauses and stares.

“How’d that hole get there?  I don’t remember that hole being there before,” he says, standing a studying the hole for a while.  I remain silent and inch down the stairs slowly.

“I wonder what happened.  Maybe I just never noticed it before.”  I’m free!  No one ever has to know!  Except then he looks at me, and I start giggling.  Jeremy’s eyes narrow.  “What did you do, and, more importantly, how did you do that?”

“Well, I was carrying the bed frame upstairs, and I accidentally jammed it into the ceiling.  I’m surprised you didn’t notice all the bits of plaster on the stairs.”

Jeremy sighs, looks down at the stairs, looks at me, and scratches his head.  “At least I can fix this one.  That wouldn’t be the case if you had jammed it into the woodwork.”

“That’s how I jammed it into the ceiling.  I was being really careful about the woodwork, and I sorta forgot about the ceiling. . .”

“You are such an idget.”

A Whole Lotta Chicks

After we put in the fence this spring, Jeremy decided he was finally going to try raising some chickens to see if that would take care of the whole farming itch thing he has going.  He spent hours researching the different types and which ones would be best for both eggs and meat.  He ended up ordering something called “Austrolorps  (I’m not even going to look it up to see if I spelled it wrong because that would be way more time than I care to invest in the subject of chicken breeds).  But, he could only order them in batches of 25, plus, they throw in a free “exotic” breed chick, and, as we discovered once they arrived on Monday, a spare Austrolorp in case one dies.  So, instead of just the few chickens he was going to try keeping, we now have 27 baby chicks.  In the dining room.

At 7:53 am on Monday, the phone rang.  It was the post office letting Jeremy know his chicks had arrived.  Jeremy goes vaulting out the door—you’d think he’d won the lottery or something.  10 minutes later, he’s back with a very loudly “peeping” box.

“They don’t actually open until 9, but I think they wanted me to come pick them up right away.” 

“Really, you think?  I don’t know why.  They’re so harmonious and melodic, I would have guessed they would have wanted to keep them around all day.”

“Yeah, they are a little loud,” Jeremy says.

“A little?  I think our neighbors can probably hear them all the way in here.”

“It did sound like a lot of chirping.  Maybe someone else had ordered chicks too,” Jeremy responds.

 I just look at him.  Yes, that’s it.  Everyone in town has ordered chicks online, and they all arrived on the same day.  “I’m fairly certain that you are the only person, probably ever, in this town to order baby chicks for postal delivery.”

I let Jeremy open his wonderful new package and take them into the dining room, where he has a giant aquarium set up for them.  Soon, he’s back.  “You’ve gotta come see the chicks!”  Okay, I will stop playing my time wasting game, and go check out the chicks.  Oh, look, one of the 27 is completely distinguishable!  I immediately pick it up.  It looks like a little chipmunk, tan, with a few dark brown stripes running along its back and up its head.

“Put that one down,” Jeremy says.

“Why?”
“You can tell it from the others.  We are not having a pet chicken.  And if it’s a rooster, we’ll be eating it.”

“I’m going to give it a name.”

“You cannot name any of the chickens.  Especially that one.  They’re food,” Jeremy says in his most commanding voice.

“They’re so cute!  And fluffy.”

“Put it down.”

“I think it’s name will be Spike,” I say, ignoring him.   “Spike the Super Chicken. 

“Super tasty,” Jeremy says.  I frown at him and decide I’ll just stay quiet on this subject for now.  After all, I’m still working on the miniature donkeys and the fainting goats.

A few hours later. . .

“I wonder if I can buy that piece of land behind us and raise a pig on it,” Jeremy says as he checks chicken butts (don’t ask, but apparently something bad can happen to little chick butts if they get stressed out).  Really, I think?  A pig in the back yard?  We haven’t even got the chickens out of the house yet.  I keep this to myself as I watch Spike puff up his chest and push all the other little chicks out of its way at the feeder, despite the fact that he’s significantly smaller than all the rest.

“Sure,” I say, “you can have a pig.”

“Really?” Jeremy looks surprised.

“Yep.  And I’ll name him Wilbur, and a spider will come along and write ‘Some Pig,’ in its web.”

“You are not going to name the pig, and the pig is not going to be a pet.  It’s going to be food.  Just like the chickens.”  I decided he’s completely missed my literary ingenuity.

“It’s from Charlotte’s Web.  Didn’t you ever read Charlotte’s Web when you were a kid?”  I ask. 

“Yes, I read Charlotte’s Web.  But I was ignoring you for obvious reasons.”  Hmmf.

“You can get whatever animals you want.  However, I’m going to read Animal Farm to them, so don’t be surprised if there’s a revolt and the pig takes over.” 

Landscaping Project Round 3

"You are not ordering more seeds or more plants," Jeremy says in his best commanding voice.  "I told you, no more until we get irrigation in."  I just look at him and nod and think about plants and seeds I might want to order.  I've discovered that, sometimes, it's best if I at least look like I'm agreeing with him, although I don't know why I bother because both of us know I'm not.  I think maybe it just gives Jeremy hope--hope that one day I will actually listen and do what he wants me to do.  And who am I to squash his dreams?

"I forbid you to order any plants or seeds this year," Jeremy says sternly, trying to look all foreboding and intimidating.  I just stare back at him and laugh.  What was he thinking?  I forbid you--like that has ever worked.  In fact, it's probably the fastest to make me do exactly what he doesn't want me to do.  The only thing he could successfully forbid me to do would be domestic type stuff.  Why hasn't he ever tried "I forbid you to cook (he might have a little less indigestion at times with that one)," or "I forbid you to do laundry," or the one I'd really go along with, "I forbid you to dust."  But no.  He picks all the wrong things like "I forbid you to drive on the grass," or "I forbid you to order more Halloween decorations."

After I finished laughing at him, I decided to just dismiss him.  "I'm not going to order anything.  I'm just going to look at a few things.  Do some research."  Yeah right.  We both know that means that within the next day, at minimum, I'll be ordering something.  He goes back to conquering the world.  I cannot quite figure out how Washington just nuked his calvalry or why Alexander the Great has a Giant Death Robot, but hey, at least he's ignoring me again.  Which is good, because, as we both know, I'm definitely ordering plants and seeds.

I realize that most husbands would be delighted if their wives wanted to do landscaping work, which is something I get excited about every year.  The problem is that my landscaping work is never successful.  For the past three summers I've been trying to beautify our yard.  For the past three summers I've pretty much just gotten it ready for an excellent Halloween tableau.  If my landscaping projects could be featured in a magazine article or on a television show, they'd be the ones on "What NEVER to Do.  Normally, I would eagerly give up on anything that I sucked at.  That's why we have dust.  That's why there's red paint on the woodwork.  But, for some unknown reason (at least not one that I have worked out), I refuse to give up on the landscaping projects.  Of all the things I probably should not stick with, landscaping would be highest on the list.

First, there was 2009 and my whole seed starting idea.  Had I actually planted all the plants on time, things might have went wonderfully.  Instead, I waited until, oh, July to actually dig up the beds.  By July, half the plants that had sprouted from my seeds had died.  Yes, I committed plant genocide because I forgot to water them for a brief period of time--by brief, I mean whatever length of time it takes a tiny plant to shrivel up and die.  In other words, I'm not sure how many weeks elapsed in between plant waterings.  However, when I finally did water them, I made sure I compensated for all those weeks without.  This water compensation also did not seem to benefit the little sprouts.  Picky little things, those plants.  Then, when I finally get them planted, they all just up and die.  Not a single one survived!  Jeremy seemed to know this would happen.  Something about plants that aren't established by July not doing very well.  The reality is that I knew my plants probably weren't going to do very well, since July is not really advocated as the appropriate time of year to plant, well, anything in Georgia.  But I like to think of myself as an optimist, so I had high hopes that at least a small number of plants would survive.  Shoot, if even one had survived, I would have congratulated myself, but alas. . .

Last year, I decided my problem lay in the fact that I had not dug up the beds before I started my whole project.  Of course, it was only me putting off digging up the beds that had caused my plants to die.  So I knew that by the end of summer 2010, our yard would be beautiful.  All the beds were now dug up, so all I had to do was actually plant my plants and flowers.  On top of that, the whole seed starting thing was a mess, so for 2010, we were simply going to buy plants.  I dragged Jeremy around from gardening center to gardening center.  We bought verbena and caladiums, and sweet potato vines.  We bought yellow Knockout roses and a yellow climbing rose.  We bought bulbs and fern rhizomes and confederate jasmine.  I even planted them all on time!  I was so proud of myself as I dragged the hose through the yard every other night, watering my beautiful beds.  For once, I was going to have pretty flowers all around my house (or at least in the spots where I had finally dug up the beds).  Then, catastrophe.  We took a vacation back to Iowa for a week around the 4th of July.  Somehow, when we got back home in mid July, I couldn't get myself back into the plant watering practice.  Plants don't seem to like to be without water through July and August.  By the end of the summer, the only things left alive in my beds were some very scraggly looking sweet potato vines--vines that had quit growing probably in July and had spent the past month and a half slowly turning an odd shade of yellow--and the jasmine, which was in a shadier spot on the side of the house.  Pretty much, Jeremy had spent all that money on pine straw,  the only thing still "surviving."  Of course, none of 2010's plant genocide was my fault.  Obviously, it was because we went on vacation, and it just threw off my whole rhythm.  After surveying my summer's death and destruction, Jeremy passed his edict--I could not do any more landscaping projects until we had irrigation.

Which brings us up to date.  I started off just looking for vegetable seeds, since we've been wanting to get a garden in for the past two very wet and rainy weeks.  Last year, we made several slightly disheartening discoveries after attempting our first Georgia garden.  The first was that peas planted in May do not do very well.  We got 1 pea pod off the entire row of peas we planted.  We eagerly popped the one pea pod open when it was finally ready, since there is nothing better then fresh, raw, garden peas.  Six delightful little peas peeked out of the pod, which meant three for each of us.  We divvied up the peas, hovering over them like some sort of weird pea junkies.  And then tragedy struck.  Jeremy dropped one of his three on the floor, and Audrey ate it.  The next thing we discovered was that tomato plants quit producing tomatoes when it gets really hot in July.  For about 2 weeks, I got wonderful, succulent tomatoes . . . and then nothing.  They were done, kaput, finished.  I have no clue what happened to the cantelope and watermelons, but we only got one watermelon and no cantelopes--and that was after the first round of cantelope seeds failed to sprout.  That's when we learned that in Georgia, you really need to plant certain things by the end of February or beginning of March.  While almost everything else in our garden failed last year, the okra, wouldn't stop.  Sadly, neither of us are really fans of okra.  I started cooking it in my homemade dog food just so it wouldn't go to waste.

The whole reason the okra was in the garden to begin with was because I went on a weird colored vegetable seed buying spree last spring.  I ordered things like purple carrots, and rainbow chard, and "burgundy" okra.  Since we couldn't plant the chard or the carrots, Jeremy conceded and let me plant the okra.  So, you can imagine my delight when, while not researching landscaping projects, I came across purple cauliflower seed.  I looked at the picture of the purple cauliflower.  It was a beautiful, vibrant shade, no, an electric shade of plum purple.  It was the most beautiful cauliflower I'd ever seen.  I wanted it!

"Purple cauliflower!" I exclaimed.  Jeremy looked up from his game.
"No," he flatly responded.
"But it's purple!"  Obviously, he was not getting the full import of this discovery.  I, on the other hand, was thinking how marvelous it would be to serve mashed cauliflower that was purple.
"Yay!" He shouted, waving his arms in the air like a very bad disco dancer.  I sensed sarcasm--okay, so maybe I didn't even have to sense the sarcasm.  It was pretty blatant.
"But you like cauliflower, and white is so boring," was the best I could come up with.
"White is not boring, and we don't need any more seeds for the garden."  I sighed.  I don't know what I was thinking last year, but when we sorted through the seeds a few weekends ago, there were like 5 different packs of radish seeds, 3 carrots, 7 different types of greens . . .

I brightened.  No vegetable seeds needed.  That meant I should definitely look at plants and flowers.  If we look at the unfolding scenario rationally, we can see that this is all Jeremy's fault.  Had he just let me buy vegetable seeds, I might have been satisfied.  But no, he had to denigrate the breathtakingly beautiful purple cauliflower for which I yearned.  So I mapped out a plan.  Given the previous years' failures, not only would I better research the plants I wanted to use, but also, I would try to spend very little money.  Jeremy couldn't be upset if there was extremely mimimal monetary loss at the end of the summer.  I found an awesome deal at Michigan Bulb where if you ordered at least $40, you got $20 off.  So, for only about $32, I got 3 ghost ferns, 3 bleeding hearts, and 3 red, reblooming miniature daylily plants.  At Park Seed, I carefully surveyed the plants and flowers that would go in my full-sun beds, and only ordered seeds for varieties that were heat, drought, and, in some cases, humidity resistant.  How could I go wrong with those?

As I wait for my plant and seed deliveries for this year, I am absolutely positive that there is no way my flower beds can fail.  After all, I had to have learned something over the past few years.  I will start the seeds inside, then, in March, I will get them all planted in the beds.  Since the beds are all dug up, all I should have to do is weed a bit, and then just pop the plants in.  Plus, with all the heat/drought tolerant varieties that I bought, that should mean they can go with less water, right?  So if I forget for a tiny little bit, no problem!  Plus, I have a watering plan.  It's absolutely brilliant, and I don't see any way it could fail.  I'm going to see if the fire department will bring a truck around to the house a couple times a week.  Those trucks have really big hoses, so it would make watering the plants a heck of a lot easier.  I don't see why they wouldn't.  I mean, unless there's a fire, they don't really need the truck--it's just sitting there in the station doing nothing.  Shoot, I'd even go pick it up and drive it back home myself.  While I'm at it, I could use the hose's water pressure to chip of some of the peeling paint from the house and get it ready to repaint.  I predict that by the end of summer 11, Jeremy will be reevaluating my landscaping skills and wondering what made him "forbid" me to buy plants and seeds to begin with.

Logical Brilliance

Given the cold, dreary, and rainy winter weather as of late, Jeremy and I have been spending a lot of time indoors trying to keep ourselves occupied.  Lately, we have been holding numerous intellectual conversations.  Really, if you can't at least exercise your mind, what can you do?  Needless to say, I figured many would delight in our logical output and marvel at the depth of our thinking.  I'm sure that if I submitted this as a book chapter, the academic world would herald us as the next Derrida or Lacan or Foucault, unable to deny the sheer brilliance of our logic and theories.

Just Plane Wrong

Jeremy has been all excited about planes and flying lately.  I know nothing about planes, other than they I get a little sick feeling when they make turns.  Needless to say, he has been showing me endless pictures of planes, videos of planes, talking about different plane types, the way they are built . . .  Usually, I just respond, "ahhh" and "very nice" and continue my cluelessness about whatever it is he’s talking about, figuring I'll tune back in at some point when he's talking about, oh, say finishing my bathroom.  In one part of one of the many plane lectures Jeremy has given in recent weeks, I discovered that there are kit planes you can buy and build yourself (although I highly discouraged Jeremy from doing so, remembering the way he was going to "fix" his truck years ago after an accident.  He ordered all the parts, stripped off the broken parts, and then the thing sat in the garage for two years before he finally had a mechanic shop tow the truck in and fix it for him).  Also, apparently, there are plane plans online, which he was looking at the other night.

Jeremy:  “blah, blah, plane, blah, blah.”

Me:  “Ahhhh.”

Jeremy: “This looks like a really well-designed plane.”

Me: “That’s good.”  I would hope it’s well designed if it’s supposed to fly.

Jeremy:  “Except I can’t figure out how they did the dual pitch.”

Me:  “Can you go get Abby.  She’s stuck around the tree again on her tie out.”

Jeremy:  “Only if you can tell me how they did the dual pitch.”

Me:  “They used two tuning forks.”

Jeremy: “That is so obviously not right.”

Me:  “Are you going to go get Abby?”

Jeremy:  “You didn’t answer my question, so no.”

Me:  “Yes I did.  You never specified it had to be the right answer.”

Jeremy:  “Mumble, mumble,” as he heads out into the dark to unwrap Abby from whatever she’s managed to get herself stuck on.

I would have felt bad, making him go out in the cold, dark, and rain to retrieve a tangled, spastic, jumping puppy--no wait, that would be a far better person than I.  That's what Jeremy gets for torturing me with planes at 10 pm. 

Divided We Stand

 Last Saturday morning, we were sitting around being lazy.  For some unknown reason, Jeremy was looking through the junk mail--credit card offers.  There were three of them, each offering like 18% interest.

Jeremy:  "So, that would be 6% interest on one."  I just stare at him.  What was he talking about?

Silence.

Jeremy: "I just divided the three cards into the 18%.  Did you figure that out?"  I just look at him.  Of course I figured it out.  That would be something I would come up with if I was bored.  He must be really bored.  At least it's not planes again.
Me: "Of course.  It wasn't too difficult to figure it out."

Jeremy:  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have gotten it if I hadn’t told you what I did.”

Me:  “Yes, I would have.”

Jeremy:  “No you wouldn’t have.  Your logic doesn’t work that way.”

Me: "It does too.  It's like figuring out a pattern.  Like when you're staring at the carpet in a hotel conference room trying to figure out the pattern because it's more interesting than whatever the person up front is saying at the conference.  And why do hotels all have such dizzying carpet patterns in their conference rooms?"

Jeremy:  "And that's how your logic works."

Me:  “I did too figure it out.  My logic works in very surprising ways.”

Jeremy:  Silence for a moment.  I’m sure he’s remembering many of the not so logical conclusions I have come to that seemed perfectly logical at the time, like the infamous low fat macaroni and cheese.  

Jeremy:  “That’s for sure.”

Puppyrearing 101

Sunday, Abby figured out how to get the lid off the container of unshelled pecans in the kitchen. Jeremy and I watched as she stuck her head in the tub, pulled out a pecan, and headed over to the big dog pillow. She plopped right in the middle and started crunching away on the shell.

Jeremy: "She's so funny."
Me: "At least it's keeping her occupied. She's been driving me nuts, and she's only been in like half an hour. All she wants to do is bite my slippers, the tie on my sweater, jump on me. . . Hopefully, the pecan will keep her busy for a while." I think about putting the lid back on the pecans, but why ruin a good thing.

Jeremy: "You should really put the lid back on. You're going to love it when the broken pecan shell causes her to hack up something nasty that you have to clean up."
Me: Sigh. So much for my peace. "You have a point."
Jeremy: "I usually do." No comment. That would be a whole big debate about all the times if I just would have listened to him in the first place. . .

Me: "But it's a huge dilemma. She's actually being good, laying down, chewing her pecan, not causing any trouble. Do I take it away just to prevent a future hack, or do I enjoy the calm?"
Jeremy: "But she's chewing MY pecans." (I tend not to like pecans unless they are in or coated with something. Okay, so that's mostly why I like about anything--for the condiment, not the food itself. I would be the first to lobby for more condiment space in refrigerators, a cause I feel deeply about. "Otherwise, I understand your dilemma."
Me: "On the plus side, that's one less pecan you have to crack open. And, from the looks of it, I think she might mostly be eating the pecan and spitting out the shell."
Jeremy: Looking around the kitchen floor. "Thank God no one is coming over today. If they were they'd look around and think that we really are rather grimy people."

Me: "Oh, she finished that one. Off for another."
Jeremy: Sigh.
Me: "Our kitchen is going to look like a redneck bar with shells all over the floor. It should go nicely with the Mt. Dew box she tore up this morning." Yes, I should have taken the box away. Yes, the floor was now littered with tiny bits of green everywhere. On the other hand, I figured picking up all the little pieces was a small price to pay for redirecting pogo puppy away from me until I had enough coffee. Will I be one of those parents who plops her kids in front of the television? If it means I get coffee and an hour of peace, definitely! Wonder if I can give them rawhide chewies like I do Abby to redirect her attention?

Bovine Theory
Me: "I'm really getting exciting about these papers I want to work on."
Jeremy: "I'm not looking forward to that, I should have put in a prenup clause forbidding you from discussing (or referencing) theory, in our conversations."
Me: "Well, the one will drive you batty--feminist theory. The other you might be interested in--posthumanism."
Jeremy: "Absolutely not and definitely not, in that order."
Me: "You're not interested in posthumanism?"
Jeremy: "Pre- post- or anything in between! I have no interests, I'm a dud."
Me: "Posthuman is the mixing of man and machine."
Jeremy: "No, posthuman is death. At least, if you started outhuman. Unless, of course, you're Hindu, in which case, I think posthuman is bovine."

Me: Sigh. Pause. I think how I can sucker him into a discussion of posthumanism. "But that's part of Battlestar Gallactica, which you love."
Jeremy: "No no, Battlestar Galactica is about things blowing up in space. And THAT I like! You're not going to get intelligent conversation out of me today wife, so stop trying!"
Me: "Obviously, my theoretical notions are just way beyond your grasp."
Jeremy: "I'm thinking about patching schedules, server moves, tilling the garden, how to gate the fence, etc... i.e. I'm thinking about my prebovine state. You think THAT obvious attempt to get my gander up is going to work?" I ponder the fact that he actually used the word "gander" in conversation. Is that even the right word? Or is he saying he's a male goose? I think the word might be dander. Or is that just the stuff you need a special shampoo for?

Me: "Well, I had to try. Even it my attempts at reverse psychology were blatantly obvious. I always hold out the hope that, at some point, they might work. I think I have to get you drunk first though."
Jeremy: "I don't think they 'ever' work. You don't manipulate me well, one of the reasons I married you. You tried, get an A for effort, but you suck."
Me: "I can be manipulative if I want! Just give me a few more years to figure it out (obviously, 14 is just not enough)."

Jeremy: "You should create a new theory called 'prebovine.' Now THAT would make for an interesting paper."
Me: "Umm, I'm not sure what that theory would entail? Milk? A steak? Okay, so now I see why that theory might interest you."
Jeremy: "Steak is clearly postbovine."
Me: "Oh, good point. That would mean milk would be presentbovine. Maybe grass or hay is prebovine."
Jeremy: "No, milk is unusual in that it's both pre and present. I've seen grass post bovine too--didn't care for THAT at all."

Me: "How can milk be prebovine if there is no cow to produce or drink the milk? I've fallen in the prebovine grass before too. Let's just say, not one of my finer moments, nor very pleasantly scented."
Jeremy: "Preadultbovine then. No no, I think you meant you fell in the POSTbovine grass."
Me: "Oh, my mistake. You are quite right. I don't think I can use any of this theory in my paper."
Jeremy: "Clearly, your paper isn't going to be any good then."

Scanning

I was running late today, and realized, after I got into my car, that I hadn't loaded any new audiobooks on my ipod or remembered any cds.  This meant I was stuck trying to find something decent to listen to on local radio stations.  It also meant that when I hit scan at the stop sign beside our house, the radio was still scanning when I got to work.

I've had to do this many times, and the result is always the same--45 minutes later, when I arrive at work, the radio is still scanning, since I have found nothing worth listening to.  Today, I decided, I would pay a little closer attention to those little "blips" that come up when the scan pauses.  I would carefully analyze what each station was projecting at its intended audience (really, I just had nothing better to do on the drive to work).


On one station, I heard the following portion of an ad: "Somewhere in your community, skilled neurosurgeons are . . ."  Somewhere in my community?  I live in a town of like 1500.  I'm pretty sure there are no neurosurgeons here.  And "somewhere?"  What are these neurosurgeons doing?  Lurking in bushes and waiting to hijack patients?  I do hope they aren't at Pizza Hut because, really, I only want a pizza.  Maybe some breadsticks.  But not a lobotomy.  Since the station flipped, I didn't even get to find out what the skilled neurosurgeons are doing.  I just had to imagine.  I decided they were all convened in the local Krispy Kreme playing Yahtzee.  Or maybe they were hosting a Tupperware or Avon party.  This made me sad.  I like parties.  Why wasn't I invited?  Was it because I wasn't a skilled neurosurgeon?

I actually stopped the scan only two times.  Once for Pearl Jam's "Once."  Like the song says, I really only should have stopped the scan once.  But I did it a second time.  I'm embarrassed to admit, but the only other song that attracted my attention was Willow Smith's "Whip My Hair."  The song only has about 2 lines to it, one of which is "I whip my hair back and forth."  In my defense, the song is quite catchy.  I will let you hear for yourself:

Or, you can also try Jimmy Fallon's and Bruce Springsteen's version:

Alright, so if you watched the video, pretty much I was just trying to sucker you in so I didn't feel quite so mortified about not disliking (I cannot admit to actually liking) that song.  Also, congratulations!:  You now have one line of a peppy little preteen song stuck in your head for the next 5 days!  I won't even begin to ponder what it says about my music tastes that those were the two songs I listened to.  It's just too scary.

It is definitely one of those days, because next up, I hear "da da dah dah / da da dah dah / da da da da da da dah dah . . ."  NO!  Not Suzanne Vega's "Tom's Diner!"  For the rest of my day, I'm gonna have that stupid da da line running through my head.  I think I was in high school when this song came out.  All I'd have to do to make my friend, Jen, cringe was sing the da da da dah part.  The song isn't near so much fun when you can only make yourself cringe.  I definitely need to give her a call.  And just start singing da da da dah.  I think what made this song so "great" was its infectiousness.  And not a good infection.  It's the infection that you feel obligated, and also somewhat self-satisfied, to pass it on, knowing that whoever hears it also will have the same, horrible syllables suck in their head for days. On top of the cringeworthiness, the whole song says nothing.  Besides, the waiter guy only gives her half a cup of coffee in the morning, and she doesn't even argue.  That right there tells you something is wrong with this song.  If somebody only have me half a cup of coffee in the morning, things would get ugly. 

The song did get me to thinking, though.  Just how bad of a songwriter do you have to be to stick in whole lines of things like da, da, dah, dah or oooohhh, or yeaaahhh?  Not to mention all those songs that stretch out vowel sounds.  It's like the songwriter had writer's block, and decided, "hey, I can't think of any words to put here, so I'm just gonna sing whoooaaahh, whooaaah for a few lines, and see if anybody notices."  I missed my calling--I should have been a songwriter.  Without further ado, here's my brand new number one song--never mind the fact it has no music.  I can play the first few notes of "Mary had a Little Lamb on the piano, so maybe you can just imagine my song to the tune of the first half of Mary Had a Little Lamb (not the second half, though, because I never learned that).

Lisa's #1 Hit Song

Ooooh,  Woooooah,

You broke my heaaaart,

 Yeahhh, you really did, soooo

Why, ohhhhhhh, did you rip it apart?

Baaaby, Baaaaby, I just want to know

Did you really have to steeeeal

My fried chicken?

Chorus

Ooooh, it hurts--

It hurts so baaaad,

Ooooh, it hurts--

Thinking what I coulda haaaad

I want my chicken back

So I won't feel so saaaad.

Youuuu, left me,

Standin' in the kitchen

Woooahhh, the misery--

You make me keep wishin'

The paainnn would disappear

But no matter how bad the itchin'

My fried chicken doesn't reappear.

Chorus

Thank you, thank you.  I know, in your head, you are stunned at my song's complexity and the depth of emotion it conveys.  Since everyone knows artists don't make much money of albums, I will be retiring off the world tour income.

As my scan continued, it seemed as if country and religion stations were alternating, with not a whole lot else in between.  I decided I would count the number of each different station genre, just because, well, I still had like 25 more minutes before I got to work, and I needed something to keep me busy.  (Okay, so this blog actually took longer than 1 drive to work, but for the purpose of flow, I will say I only did this once.  Jeremy actually spotted me out the window, still scanning through stations in our driveway after I got home.  When I walked into the house, he just looked at me and said "You're so weird."  I replied, "Why am I weird?"  It was not a defense, just simply wondering what I had now done that "seemed" weird to him.  "You were sitting in the driveway scanning radio stations, weren't you?"  Well, yes. . .)  Where I live, I pass from one region into another, which means one set of stations fade out, and by the time I get to work or home, I have a whole new set.  This means that I should have a huge variety of stations to draw from.  Not so much.  My final calculations came up with 13 country, 9 religion, 7 classic rock, 7 hip hop/r&b/rap, 5 classic hits/oldies, 4 top 40, and then NPR, ESPN, Fox News, and 1 Spanish station.  There were roughly 5 unidentifiable stations that I had no clue what their genre was supposed to be, so, for the purposes of this study, they will simply be known as "unidentified crap" stations.  

I then decided to survey each genre selection's broadcasts.  From the religion channels, I surmised the following things about myself: I was saved, I was going to hell, I should not have a mistress, I need to make my children obey and say "yes/no sir or ma'am," the ice cream man is creepy (don't ask me.  I almost stopped to listen to this one just to find out why the ice cream man was creepy.  I decided the radio hosts must have been watching too many scary movies, but that there was something to the ice cream man creepiness), I should blow my "trumpet on Zion (they obviously don't know I have no music talent)," and that God was going to be calling me (in case you're wondering, he still hasn't.  Maybe it's because I don't have a red phone).  

As for the country stations, I found the lyrics to several country songs very intriguing.  I don't know who the singer was, and I will probably misquote him, but the lyrics went something to the effect of "I got all cleaned up clean / cut and clean-shaved. . ."  The scan ended at that point, and all I could think was "deep."  Actually, I just wished I knew who the song writer was so I could send him/her a thesaurus.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm very glad he is clean.  Nothing worse than a stinky singer on the radio.  There also was the song that went "Lover, lover, lover, you don't treat me no good no more."  I was awed!  Not a double negative, but an actual triple negative!  Such of amazing feat of grammatical incorrectness I had never witnessed before!  Had I already not exerted myself with my non-word and extended vowel song, I might have been tempted to try my hand at a quadruple negative.  But alas, I had worn my songwriting creativity out for the day. 

Regarding the classic rock stations, I am now going to say something that many might find sacrilegious (including Jeremy, but I think we've already established he has bad taste in music): I could happily go the rest of my life never hearing Led Zepplin's "Stairway to Heaven," Lynnard Skynnard's "Free Bird," Bob Segar's "Old Time Rock and Roll," or Creedence's "Bad Moon Rising."  I never really liked those songs, but since they are on a never-ending and continual cycle on all classic rock stations, I have grown, well, putting it mildly, to despise them.   Therefore, I've decided to "rework," these classics into a much more compact, 1 song form.  I even added in a little of The Steve Miller Band's "Joker."  I believe my version vastly improves upon the original, and I call it:

Crap Condensed
I see the bad moon arising.               --I hate it when the moon goes bad.  Nothing worse than rotten cheese smell
I see trouble on the way.
Don't try to take me to a disco
You'll never even get me out on the floor      --imagining Bob Segar trying to disco makes me shudder
But, if I stayed here with you girl
Things just couldn't be the same
Ooh, it makes me wonder
Oh, Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, ooh, whoa, oh          --note that I also made sure to include the long vowel sound lyrics in my revision
People talk about me, baby
Say I'm doin' you wrong, doin' you wrong

Chorus
I play my music in the sun.
I reminisce about the days of old
There's a bad moon on the rise.
And the bird you cannot change
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.                   --No, I'm not.  Everyone should know by now I prefer an escalator

Call me a relic, call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned, say I'm over the hill
But please don't take it so badly
'Cause the Lord knows
I'm to blame                                                           --finally, a man who admits it :P
You're the cutest thing I ever did see
Really love your peaches wanna shake your tree             --I love subtlety
Don't go around tonight,
I know the end is coming soon
There's a sign on the wall
I sure don't want to hurt no one wooo wooooo            --yay!  More long vowels
There's only one sure way to get me to go
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow.                            --so many things running through my mind, so I'll just leave this line alone

After that, there were a few horrifying encounters with John Tesh and John Boy and Billy in the Morning, two different radio programs area stations carry.  With John Tesh, you just can never get enough of his words of wisdom.  He imparts such wonderful information as "if you put a brick in your toilet, you can save 500 gallons of water a year" and "having a pet can increase your life span (he's obviously never been around our pets).  As for John Boy and Billy in the Morning, just , uggh.  There are like 15 radio stations in the area that carry this show because, obviously, listeners must be too stupid to be able to find it if only a single radio station carried it.  I don't know which is John Boy and which is Billy, nor do I really care.  Every morning, they pack the studio full of their friends (Tiny, Bubba, Joe Bob, and token female who they always pick on).  Then, they spend most of their show making bad jokes that everyone then laughs at for several minutes.  For example, here's what I caught this morning as they were doing celebrity birthdays: "And Mozart would be 260 years old today if he hadn't died.  Instead, today, he's finally done decomposing."  Then everyone laughs for 5 minutes.  I also discovered that John Boy and Billy are embarking on their "No Collar Comedy Tour."  I'm so excited, I can't see straight.  I'm going to rush out and buy my tickets immediately!  I was wondering what I was going to do until Justin Bieber came back around, and now I have light in my life again!

By the time I arrived at work, I was mentally exhausted after such intense analysis.  Okay, so it was John Tesh's advice that finally did me in.  But, I had several profound realizations!  1) If one were inclined to sing at the top of their lungs in their car (which I am not inclined to do), Alanis Morissette's "You Outta Know" is one of the best songs ever to sing/scream loudly while hurtling down a rural country road.  2)  The Spanish station caught me off guard for a second.  I thought I was listening to polka on the radio.  3) "Candle in the Wind" actually has a line that says, "They set you on a treadmill."  What the heck does that mean?  The treadmill was too high for Marilyn to climb on, so somebody had to help her up?  And why did they set her on it?  Should they stand her on it?  Did no one know how to use a treadmill in the 60s?  They should have just watched The Jetsons.  4)   That I should never, ever, ever, forget my ipod again.  In fact, maybe I should go buy a spare, so that if one breaks, I still have another.  I'm not sure.  I might need counseling after this traumatic experience.  I think I was shaking a little when I finally pulled into my parking spot at work.  I'm going to self-medicate with some wine now, and hope I don't have nightmares.  Crap.  Jeremy just pulled up the Bee Gees station on Pandora.  Will the suffering never end?