It's 11:13 p.m. on Thursday and I'm sitting at Joey's parents house using their computer to check emails and whatnot. We just spent all day in Ankeny with friends and are really tired. I was just about ready to close up shop and go to bed (broken toe and all) when I heard a strange, strange sound coming from the bathroom.
Sounded like splashing. Loud splashing.
Joey's parents have this ginormous Border Collie (well, I think she's ginormous; but then I'm short) with a really long nose. As I was hearing this splashing sound I was thinking, "Now, what could that be? Everyone's either asleep or downstairs..."
And then I realized what it was. It was the dog drinking out of the toilet.
The very same dog that sticks her nose in my lap and tries to get me to pet her. Who attempts to lick me (but is usually thwarted because I thump her with a pillow). Who sticks my dog's head in her mouth when they're playing.
Ew.
And just then, the splashing sound stopped and Midnight (aforementioned long-snouted Border Collie) came prancing out of the bathroom, licking her chops.
Ew.
I'm so glad Henry can't even come close to drinking out of the toilet. If he did...well, I don't know what I'd do, but I'd do something.
Ew.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I Broke My Toe
We were having Mothers/Fathers Day this evening since all us kids were on holiday from our Diaspora. We had just given Pops his new rockets (yay!) and Mom was getting ready to open her present when Andrew started making strange shouting noises directed at the living room.
Henry was sitting on the couch proudly (I guess dogs aren't allowed on furniture at Mom and Dad's) and Ernie (The Kid's dog) was sitting pitifully on the ground, looking up at Henry.
Andrew's shouting was directed at Henry. Because everyone knows that bellowing sounds make dogs get off furniture.
Since Henry wasn't getting off the couch, I went over to get him off. I picked up his furry little body and bounced back over to the dining room.
The living room is one of those sunken ones, so it's got one stone step in between it and the dining room. As I bounced along, I underestimated the appropriate height of my bounce up into the dining room and caught my pinkie toe on the stone step.
Crunch.
"AAAAAUGH!" I screamed, and dropped the dog.
We had just spent the last half hour discussing gory and disgusting stories, half for our dinner edification and half to gross dad out. So me crunching my toe on the step was real fashionable. Everyone at the table was silent for a second and then erupted into discussion a moment later.
"I think I ripped off my toenail!" I wailed.
Andrew shot off his chair and ran upstairs. Sister crouched down beside me and said, "Let me see, let me see". Joey hovered around above me. Pops said, "Oh man, I hope it's not broken", and "If you're bleeding, get off the carpet" and other motivational things.
I scooched myself over to the wood floor where we surveyed the damage.
For those of you who have been unfortunate enough to see my pinkie toe, perhaps you will recall that I have the sorriest excuse for a pinkie toenail. It's really small and Joey makes fun of it whenever he can. (Meanie.)
The nail isn't ripped off, but it's longer than it used to be and a strange greenish/purpleish color at the base. And there was no blood, which was a disappointment.
Andrew reappeared carrying two boxes of bandaids, hydrogen peroxide, and rubbing alcohol.
"I didn't know which to grab," he explained, and set all his loot down on the kitchen table. "And I couldn't find any cotton balls."
I was still wailing (as any self respecting woman would do) and Joey sat down and made me show him my toe. "Can you move it?" I wiggled it up and down.
"It's not broken," he said.
"Is too!" I wailed. "I've never had a broken bone. It's the very end that's broken."
"It's not broken," Pops weighed in from the dining room. He's the expert on broken toes because he just broke his a couple weeks ago.
"Is too!" I reiterated. "It's all swollen and purpley-like."
And, thus, I maintain that I broke my toe. It hurts like a banshee, it's all plump and swollen and, while I can move it, it's the end of it that really hurts. So I probably broke the end off or something logical like that.
Gross.
Henry was sitting on the couch proudly (I guess dogs aren't allowed on furniture at Mom and Dad's) and Ernie (The Kid's dog) was sitting pitifully on the ground, looking up at Henry.
Andrew's shouting was directed at Henry. Because everyone knows that bellowing sounds make dogs get off furniture.
Since Henry wasn't getting off the couch, I went over to get him off. I picked up his furry little body and bounced back over to the dining room.
The living room is one of those sunken ones, so it's got one stone step in between it and the dining room. As I bounced along, I underestimated the appropriate height of my bounce up into the dining room and caught my pinkie toe on the stone step.
Crunch.
"AAAAAUGH!" I screamed, and dropped the dog.
We had just spent the last half hour discussing gory and disgusting stories, half for our dinner edification and half to gross dad out. So me crunching my toe on the step was real fashionable. Everyone at the table was silent for a second and then erupted into discussion a moment later.
"I think I ripped off my toenail!" I wailed.
Andrew shot off his chair and ran upstairs. Sister crouched down beside me and said, "Let me see, let me see". Joey hovered around above me. Pops said, "Oh man, I hope it's not broken", and "If you're bleeding, get off the carpet" and other motivational things.
I scooched myself over to the wood floor where we surveyed the damage.
For those of you who have been unfortunate enough to see my pinkie toe, perhaps you will recall that I have the sorriest excuse for a pinkie toenail. It's really small and Joey makes fun of it whenever he can. (Meanie.)
The nail isn't ripped off, but it's longer than it used to be and a strange greenish/purpleish color at the base. And there was no blood, which was a disappointment.
Andrew reappeared carrying two boxes of bandaids, hydrogen peroxide, and rubbing alcohol.
"I didn't know which to grab," he explained, and set all his loot down on the kitchen table. "And I couldn't find any cotton balls."
I was still wailing (as any self respecting woman would do) and Joey sat down and made me show him my toe. "Can you move it?" I wiggled it up and down.
"It's not broken," he said.
"Is too!" I wailed. "I've never had a broken bone. It's the very end that's broken."
"It's not broken," Pops weighed in from the dining room. He's the expert on broken toes because he just broke his a couple weeks ago.
"Is too!" I reiterated. "It's all swollen and purpley-like."
And, thus, I maintain that I broke my toe. It hurts like a banshee, it's all plump and swollen and, while I can move it, it's the end of it that really hurts. So I probably broke the end off or something logical like that.
Gross.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
"Why isn't Joey watching you?!"
On Thursday night my friend from Iowa (Amber) and I went to Central Market to buy some exotic fruits that grocery stores in Iowa are unlikely to carry. (Starfruit, passion fruit, miniature pinapples, etc.)
The power in Central Market was out because of a huge thunderstorm we'd had, so the few lights that were on were running off a generator, giving the entire store a kind of "can't touch this" feel. Like we weren't really supposed to be there, you know.
At least I kept waiting to get kicked out.
Anyway, since it was so dark we had trouble locating the particular fruit we'd come to find. We wound up having to ask some employee, who took us right to them. (In our defense, the passionfruit was buried under the pomegranates. Seriously, how were we supposed to know we had to pick all the pomegranates up in order to find the passion fruit.)
Amber ran off to another part of the store and I told her I'd wait for her in the fruit area. But I got really bored of looking at fruit in semi-darkness and wandered over to the seafood section. Where the lobsters are. And crabs.
I leaned over their tank and blew on the water to try to rile them up. There were about 50 of them in the tank and some were fighting but most were sleeping. I wanted them to all be fighting.
I happened to glance up and notice a "Do Not Put Hands In Lobster Tank" sign. This was disappointing to me, so I whipped out my cell phone and called The Kid.
"The Kid, I'm here at the grocery store. The sign says not to touch the lobsters but I want to anyway. Should I stick my hand in the tank?"
He sighed heavily. "WHY isn't Joey watching you?"
"He's not here. So can I touch the lobster?"
Pause. "GOSH, fine."
I stuck my hand in the lobster tank and poked the nearest lobster. I squealed (as quietly as possible) and said, "He had a hard shell."
"Where's Joey." The Kid demanded.
"He's somewhere else. Can I touch the crabs too?"
"Not my fault if you get your finger pinched off." He said.
"I superglued three of my fingers together tonight." I said, shaking my wet hand off all over the floor before an employee came and escorted me out of the store.
The Kid sighed again. "Seriously, why doesn't Joey keep a closer eye on you?"
"He was sitting right by me; he helped me peel my fingers apart. I was making a tinfoil sculpture of Trogdor in your honor when we were at Freebirds. Turns out superglue and tinfoil don't mix real well."
I could tell that he was shaking his head all the way up there in Iowa. "Sugarplum, I'm hanging up now. You need that husband to keep a better eye on you."
"Do not. I do just fine."
"OKFINEBYE," he said, in traditional Laird style. I said the same and we hung up our respective cell phones, although I did so with semi-sticky fingers from the leftover superglue.
I watched the lobsters fight for a few more minutes (barely restraining myself from poking any more of them) before deciding I'd better find Amber lest I got kicked out.
And since I really like Central Market, I don't want to get on their naughty list.
The power in Central Market was out because of a huge thunderstorm we'd had, so the few lights that were on were running off a generator, giving the entire store a kind of "can't touch this" feel. Like we weren't really supposed to be there, you know.
At least I kept waiting to get kicked out.
Anyway, since it was so dark we had trouble locating the particular fruit we'd come to find. We wound up having to ask some employee, who took us right to them. (In our defense, the passionfruit was buried under the pomegranates. Seriously, how were we supposed to know we had to pick all the pomegranates up in order to find the passion fruit.)
Amber ran off to another part of the store and I told her I'd wait for her in the fruit area. But I got really bored of looking at fruit in semi-darkness and wandered over to the seafood section. Where the lobsters are. And crabs.
I leaned over their tank and blew on the water to try to rile them up. There were about 50 of them in the tank and some were fighting but most were sleeping. I wanted them to all be fighting.
I happened to glance up and notice a "Do Not Put Hands In Lobster Tank" sign. This was disappointing to me, so I whipped out my cell phone and called The Kid.
"The Kid, I'm here at the grocery store. The sign says not to touch the lobsters but I want to anyway. Should I stick my hand in the tank?"
He sighed heavily. "WHY isn't Joey watching you?"
"He's not here. So can I touch the lobster?"
Pause. "GOSH, fine."
I stuck my hand in the lobster tank and poked the nearest lobster. I squealed (as quietly as possible) and said, "He had a hard shell."
"Where's Joey." The Kid demanded.
"He's somewhere else. Can I touch the crabs too?"
"Not my fault if you get your finger pinched off." He said.
"I superglued three of my fingers together tonight." I said, shaking my wet hand off all over the floor before an employee came and escorted me out of the store.
The Kid sighed again. "Seriously, why doesn't Joey keep a closer eye on you?"
"He was sitting right by me; he helped me peel my fingers apart. I was making a tinfoil sculpture of Trogdor in your honor when we were at Freebirds. Turns out superglue and tinfoil don't mix real well."
I could tell that he was shaking his head all the way up there in Iowa. "Sugarplum, I'm hanging up now. You need that husband to keep a better eye on you."
"Do not. I do just fine."
"OKFINEBYE," he said, in traditional Laird style. I said the same and we hung up our respective cell phones, although I did so with semi-sticky fingers from the leftover superglue.
I watched the lobsters fight for a few more minutes (barely restraining myself from poking any more of them) before deciding I'd better find Amber lest I got kicked out.
And since I really like Central Market, I don't want to get on their naughty list.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
My Strange Morning and Stranger Pants
We're in Iowa. And whenever we're in Iowa, Pops has Tons Of Work that he needs Done. So we woke up at 9:00, I borrowed some really strange old jeans from my Mom (mid-nineties jeans....jibblies), a t-shirt, and some mowing shoes and went outside to get marching orders.
So it was Me, Pops, Gramps and Joey. A very volatile combination. (It's usually three against one; I'll give you three guesses on who gets ganged up on. The first two don't count.)
The first order of the day was to push Dad's antique John Deere B out of the barn. We had to do this because:
a.) we had to wash it
b.) the stall was filled with cat poo that we (me?!) had to clean out
It was super nasty pushing that tractor out when the wheels were covered in shadies. Dad had gloves. I did not.
Somehow we got the tractor out (we almost knocked a weed whacker off and broke it). I was real glad when Joey showed up because then I could stop touching the cat-poo wheels. Sort of.
So then Dad said, "Wash the tractor." He commanded me to go find some soap up at the house. The soap did not exist, apparently Mom doesn't buy the kind he wanted. So I got something else and headed back down to the barn.
Joey and I then washed the tractor. In the rain.
The rain began as soon as we started sudsing up the tractor and Pops said it was "helping" us.
That was when he started hosing off the other side of the tractor. The side we had recently washed. Maybe some of you don't know what my dad's tractor looks like, but it's not real tall and it has a lot of holes in the engine part.
Most of the spray Dad was spraying on the tractor came through and sprayed us. Not Ideal.
So it was raining, Dad was "accidentally" spraying us with the sprayer, and we had cat poo vestiges on our hands.
The morning wasn't looking real great.
Oh, and morale was dropping because we were getting hungry. Somebody had made the mistake of saying the word "doughnuts" and as soon as that happened, morale just tanked. We (primarily Grandpa) kept grousing about how the lack of doughnuts was impairing our judgment and productivity.
Grandma showed up and decided she'd get on the doughnut bandwagon. Pops was beginning to feel outnumbered and was making bold statements of "no doughnuts" and "we're not eating lunch" and suchlike.
Mutiny was in the air. (Again, primarily from Grandpa.)
In order to keep me and Grandma quiet, Pops handed us his busted up model airplane and said, "take this to the trash over there."
So we did. Only "the trash over there" was real full. So grandma and I looked at each other...looked at the busted airplane...and started jumping on it to break it into smaller pieces so it would fit in the trash can.
I felt real guilty jumping on Dad's airplane. I was afraid at any minute I'd hear "WAIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" and he'd realize he'd given us the wrong airplane to throw away or something.
But that didn't happen. (Good thing, too, because Grandma smashed her piece into really tiny bits. She was going to town on it.)
When morale was as low as it could possibly get, Grandpa mutinied and said, "We're going to Culvers!" He then stuffed Pops in the truck and forced him at not-quite-gunpoint to drive him there.
And, thus, we went to Culvers.
Me, dressed like this.
Disclaimer: What you are about to see is very disturbing. If you don't think you can handle it, run away from your computer monitor screaming. If you don't, you may be very likely to do so after you see these pictures.
This second pictures is Sister's fault. She liked it because she thought I looked real ugly and terrible. And so she made me stand like this while she took a picture. I only upload it now because I realize that it does have comic value. Other than that, the picture is disturbing.
And that's my morning. Breaking Pops' airplane, getting soggy, and wearing strange pants.
I need to go to Iowa more often.
So it was Me, Pops, Gramps and Joey. A very volatile combination. (It's usually three against one; I'll give you three guesses on who gets ganged up on. The first two don't count.)
The first order of the day was to push Dad's antique John Deere B out of the barn. We had to do this because:
a.) we had to wash it
b.) the stall was filled with cat poo that we (me?!) had to clean out
It was super nasty pushing that tractor out when the wheels were covered in shadies. Dad had gloves. I did not.
Somehow we got the tractor out (we almost knocked a weed whacker off and broke it). I was real glad when Joey showed up because then I could stop touching the cat-poo wheels. Sort of.
So then Dad said, "Wash the tractor." He commanded me to go find some soap up at the house. The soap did not exist, apparently Mom doesn't buy the kind he wanted. So I got something else and headed back down to the barn.
Joey and I then washed the tractor. In the rain.
The rain began as soon as we started sudsing up the tractor and Pops said it was "helping" us.
That was when he started hosing off the other side of the tractor. The side we had recently washed. Maybe some of you don't know what my dad's tractor looks like, but it's not real tall and it has a lot of holes in the engine part.
Most of the spray Dad was spraying on the tractor came through and sprayed us. Not Ideal.
So it was raining, Dad was "accidentally" spraying us with the sprayer, and we had cat poo vestiges on our hands.
The morning wasn't looking real great.
Oh, and morale was dropping because we were getting hungry. Somebody had made the mistake of saying the word "doughnuts" and as soon as that happened, morale just tanked. We (primarily Grandpa) kept grousing about how the lack of doughnuts was impairing our judgment and productivity.
Grandma showed up and decided she'd get on the doughnut bandwagon. Pops was beginning to feel outnumbered and was making bold statements of "no doughnuts" and "we're not eating lunch" and suchlike.
Mutiny was in the air. (Again, primarily from Grandpa.)
In order to keep me and Grandma quiet, Pops handed us his busted up model airplane and said, "take this to the trash over there."
So we did. Only "the trash over there" was real full. So grandma and I looked at each other...looked at the busted airplane...and started jumping on it to break it into smaller pieces so it would fit in the trash can.
I felt real guilty jumping on Dad's airplane. I was afraid at any minute I'd hear "WAIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" and he'd realize he'd given us the wrong airplane to throw away or something.
But that didn't happen. (Good thing, too, because Grandma smashed her piece into really tiny bits. She was going to town on it.)
When morale was as low as it could possibly get, Grandpa mutinied and said, "We're going to Culvers!" He then stuffed Pops in the truck and forced him at not-quite-gunpoint to drive him there.
And, thus, we went to Culvers.
Me, dressed like this.
Disclaimer: What you are about to see is very disturbing. If you don't think you can handle it, run away from your computer monitor screaming. If you don't, you may be very likely to do so after you see these pictures.
This second pictures is Sister's fault. She liked it because she thought I looked real ugly and terrible. And so she made me stand like this while she took a picture. I only upload it now because I realize that it does have comic value. Other than that, the picture is disturbing.
And that's my morning. Breaking Pops' airplane, getting soggy, and wearing strange pants.
I need to go to Iowa more often.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
And It Rained Cats And Henrys
It's raining so hard right now that I can barely see the skyscraper across the way. A minute ago, I couldn't see it at all. The sky had this strange sea-green opaqueness to it and, had I been in Iowa, I'd have run for the basement immediately.
However, I'm not in Iowa. I'm in a high rise in Dallas. And the ceiling is creaking.
Considering the amount of water that's rushing down the windows, the ginormous lightning and booming thunder, it's going to be a Long Drive Home.
We're having issues with flash flooding, too, so I'm not sure if it's smarter to take the freeway or to take the back roads where there are less idiots but more low spots. Oy. And if you look at the RADAR, the storm's about the size of Iowa; we're going to be having rain for awhile.
It better stop before we leave tomorrow. I need the boys to drive super fast so we get home sooner.
However, I'm not in Iowa. I'm in a high rise in Dallas. And the ceiling is creaking.
Considering the amount of water that's rushing down the windows, the ginormous lightning and booming thunder, it's going to be a Long Drive Home.
We're having issues with flash flooding, too, so I'm not sure if it's smarter to take the freeway or to take the back roads where there are less idiots but more low spots. Oy. And if you look at the RADAR, the storm's about the size of Iowa; we're going to be having rain for awhile.
It better stop before we leave tomorrow. I need the boys to drive super fast so we get home sooner.
Living On The Edge
I just ate ten semi-moldy raspberries. But they were a lot less moldy than all the other raspberries in the container, so I picked out the best ones and threw the rest away.
Only two or three of them tasted Really Suspicious. The rest just tasted kind of bland.
I hope I don't get sick now.
Only two or three of them tasted Really Suspicious. The rest just tasted kind of bland.
I hope I don't get sick now.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
In Which Henry Barfs All Over The Floor And Then The Sink
I generally try to keep my posts tactful. By tactful, of course, I mean that I try not to talk about bodily functions, etc. However, I must make an exception.
Henry.
We have visitors from Iowa this week. Henry ADORES them because they will play fetch with him. All night long. (Which we put the kibosh on last night, he was getting really annoying so Amber hid all of his toys in the closet. Smart girl.)
He was too excited about "his" visitors, so he didn't eat all his dinner. In fact, he ate only half of it. He hadn't been, um, regular since Joel and Amber arrived, either. Mostly because we'd take him outside and he'd pretend to do his business (we were totally on to him) and then he'd run up the stairs to go back inside and harass them again.
So we knew something was up.
Well, I was in the middle of making sandwiches for everyone's lunch when I saw Henry sitting by the kitchen door looking pathetic and cute all at the same time. Then he began to sniff the floor and make strange coughing sounds.
"Is Henry barfing?" I asked.
Joey shot off the couch, grabbed the dog and dashed over to the kitchen sink.
Yes, he was barfing.
In my kitchen sink. Where I wash my vegetables.
"Why are you holding him over the sink? He already barfed?" I asked.
"No, he's doing more," Joey said, wiping Henry off with a paper towel.
He was right; Henry did more. I emptied his half-eaten food bowl and mixed up some Pedialyte for him to drink.
Joey set Henry down and said, "I'll clean up the stuff on the floor."
I was grateful...it was really grossing me out.
Henry wandered back over to his now-empty food bowl and tried to eat what wasn't there. I sat him down on the floor and squirted Pedialyte down his throat, which made him quite miserable.
And then he lay around calmly for the rest of the evening. So we may try to have him barf more often if he'll be calm and civilized afterwards.
Henry.
We have visitors from Iowa this week. Henry ADORES them because they will play fetch with him. All night long. (Which we put the kibosh on last night, he was getting really annoying so Amber hid all of his toys in the closet. Smart girl.)
He was too excited about "his" visitors, so he didn't eat all his dinner. In fact, he ate only half of it. He hadn't been, um, regular since Joel and Amber arrived, either. Mostly because we'd take him outside and he'd pretend to do his business (we were totally on to him) and then he'd run up the stairs to go back inside and harass them again.
So we knew something was up.
Well, I was in the middle of making sandwiches for everyone's lunch when I saw Henry sitting by the kitchen door looking pathetic and cute all at the same time. Then he began to sniff the floor and make strange coughing sounds.
"Is Henry barfing?" I asked.
Joey shot off the couch, grabbed the dog and dashed over to the kitchen sink.
Yes, he was barfing.
In my kitchen sink. Where I wash my vegetables.
"Why are you holding him over the sink? He already barfed?" I asked.
"No, he's doing more," Joey said, wiping Henry off with a paper towel.
He was right; Henry did more. I emptied his half-eaten food bowl and mixed up some Pedialyte for him to drink.
Joey set Henry down and said, "I'll clean up the stuff on the floor."
I was grateful...it was really grossing me out.
Henry wandered back over to his now-empty food bowl and tried to eat what wasn't there. I sat him down on the floor and squirted Pedialyte down his throat, which made him quite miserable.
And then he lay around calmly for the rest of the evening. So we may try to have him barf more often if he'll be calm and civilized afterwards.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Reason Why The Kid Is Dead Until Further Notice
On Saturday, I received a text message. It came from The Kid's phone, but I could tell by style that it was most definitely not from The Kid.
And so I replied with a, "Where are you and what have you done with The Kid?"
And it was then that I learned that The Kid had been kidnapped and was being held hostage in exchange for 6-12 Pepsi's. I was to deliver said Pepsi's behind Mom and Dad's house at, like 1:00 a.m. on Saturday.
I looked at Joey. I looked at my phone. I texted "I do not negotiate with terrorists."
I received a text back saying that The Kid was dead until further notice. Because of my obstinacy. He's being held by some really major terrorists, it seems.
Just call his voicemail if you're wondering. He's totally dead I guess. Or until further notice. I haven't seen him in a couple months anyway, so who really knows.
Anyway, that's why The Kid is dead until further notice. Hopefully he'll resurrect in time to graduate on Saturday, but there's no telling what those terrorists will do with him.
And so I replied with a, "Where are you and what have you done with The Kid?"
And it was then that I learned that The Kid had been kidnapped and was being held hostage in exchange for 6-12 Pepsi's. I was to deliver said Pepsi's behind Mom and Dad's house at, like 1:00 a.m. on Saturday.
I looked at Joey. I looked at my phone. I texted "I do not negotiate with terrorists."
I received a text back saying that The Kid was dead until further notice. Because of my obstinacy. He's being held by some really major terrorists, it seems.
Just call his voicemail if you're wondering. He's totally dead I guess. Or until further notice. I haven't seen him in a couple months anyway, so who really knows.
Anyway, that's why The Kid is dead until further notice. Hopefully he'll resurrect in time to graduate on Saturday, but there's no telling what those terrorists will do with him.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
RETRACTION
My sincerest and most humble apologies to my Grandpops. Aparently it was not he who said I was real obstinate, it was my GRANDMOTHER!
My very own grandmother.
And, thus, it seems to me that I inherited my obstinate and troublesome nature from my grandma. Perhaps Gramps and Joey will each be getting a Double Portion?
Gramps definitely called me this afternoon to inform me that I needed to check my sources more carefully before defaming him all over the Internet.
SISTER, I blame you. As my primary (um, only?) source, you really let me down this time. And since The Kid is dead until further notice, it's not like I could really call him for clarification.
So I must give discredit where discredit is due: Grandma is the one who thinks I'm real difficult, not my gramps. Although I wouldn't put it past him.
My very own grandmother.
And, thus, it seems to me that I inherited my obstinate and troublesome nature from my grandma. Perhaps Gramps and Joey will each be getting a Double Portion?
Gramps definitely called me this afternoon to inform me that I needed to check my sources more carefully before defaming him all over the Internet.
SISTER, I blame you. As my primary (um, only?) source, you really let me down this time. And since The Kid is dead until further notice, it's not like I could really call him for clarification.
So I must give discredit where discredit is due: Grandma is the one who thinks I'm real difficult, not my gramps. Although I wouldn't put it past him.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Joey's Making Me Title This So It Comes Through On My RSS Feed
I heard a rumor that my grandpops thinks that Joey is so longsuffering to have to put up with such as me (I'm obstinate and whatnot), that he'll be getting a Double Portion.
Well, I'd just like to say that I'm really not all that obstinate (well, not too bad), and that Joey better share his double portion of whatever he gets. Otherwise it's selfish and that's not allowed.
And I think Gramps is probably pretty obstinate too, if we're going to get right down to it. I guess it takes one to know one?
Muahahahaha.....
Well, I'd just like to say that I'm really not all that obstinate (well, not too bad), and that Joey better share his double portion of whatever he gets. Otherwise it's selfish and that's not allowed.
And I think Gramps is probably pretty obstinate too, if we're going to get right down to it. I guess it takes one to know one?
Muahahahaha.....
A Three Hour Tour
Joey just stuck a barcode on my face and now wants to know if he can scan me. I have not yet responded. Ow. He just pulled the barcode off and now my face hurts.
More to the point, Joey and I headed up to Wylie to get my hair cut from a friend of mine who works up there. I got the directions from Google Maps and we were on our way.
(Now, when I say I "got the directions", I mean that I glanced at the map, noticed that it seemed to be the first exit after the Bush Turnpike and then east a ways and we'd run right into it.)
I figured it would be easy as pie. Joey felt like bum, so I was doing the driving.
I pulled off 75 at the first exit after the Bush Turnpike and realized instantly that the "directions" I had thought would be really easy were not, in fact, really easy.
We wound up on FM544 and just started following it east. I figured it would take us somewhere that would lead us to Wylie. After fifteen minutes of this, I realized I'd better stop and ask directions.
And so I did.
The little Indian man in the convenience store very politely assured me that Wylie was "two or three more miles and you will come right to it".
He was kind of right. In two or three miles we came to the turn that took us to Wylie, which was better than nothing. Once we got to Wylie we had to find the road that the hair salon was on. I knew it was on Highway 78, but as we weren't really sure where that was...
We found it entirely by accident and then I nearly drove past because I missed the sigh for the hair salon. 35-40 minutes later, we were in the salon and I was getting my hairs cut.
We left the salon at 12:30. Joey was real hungry so we got subs real quick. My friend said "Oh, it's real easy to get back. Just stay on 78 and it'll take you right there."
And so we did.
I turned left because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Twenty minutes later, the towns were getting smaller, the road was down to two lanes (not something we've seen for awhile), and our hopes of ever seeing Dallas again were getting kinda slim.
"Um, I think I turned the wrong direction." I admitted to Joey.
"I think you did too." He concurred.
And so I turned the car around. The first sign we saw read: Dallas 34
We were thirty-four miles off course. Oy. That's halfway to the state border.
By this time it was very nearly 1:00. The drive back to Wylie was pretty quick, all things considered. But the drive just kept going. We found ourselves quite unsure of where we were, and quite unable to actually find Dallas.
Stinkin' Highway 78 was not taking us to anywhere that we knew.
I had dropped the ball on the getting of the directions yet again.
By 1:30, Joey and I realized that we were utterly lost. We knew where we wanted to go, but we couldn't figure out how to ask someone how to get there. It was the kind of lost where you don't even know what kind of landmark you should ask for directions to...because you're not sure where you are in relation to that landmark.
We finally made it to a freeway system that we recognized.
We got on it and, to our dismay, after five miles it was jammed because of an accident. We pulled off and were about to get onto the road that would take us home when all traffic stopped again.
A funeral procession.
I was about to stick my head out of the car and scream. It had been almost an hour and a half since we left Wylie. (It's only 20 miles of four-lane road from our apartment in Dallas.)
And, thus, I have learned my lesson. It is twofold:
1. Always print off directions from Google Maps. Never assume that I actually know how to get somewhere.
2. Have Joey drive.
More to the point, Joey and I headed up to Wylie to get my hair cut from a friend of mine who works up there. I got the directions from Google Maps and we were on our way.
(Now, when I say I "got the directions", I mean that I glanced at the map, noticed that it seemed to be the first exit after the Bush Turnpike and then east a ways and we'd run right into it.)
I figured it would be easy as pie. Joey felt like bum, so I was doing the driving.
I pulled off 75 at the first exit after the Bush Turnpike and realized instantly that the "directions" I had thought would be really easy were not, in fact, really easy.
We wound up on FM544 and just started following it east. I figured it would take us somewhere that would lead us to Wylie. After fifteen minutes of this, I realized I'd better stop and ask directions.
And so I did.
The little Indian man in the convenience store very politely assured me that Wylie was "two or three more miles and you will come right to it".
He was kind of right. In two or three miles we came to the turn that took us to Wylie, which was better than nothing. Once we got to Wylie we had to find the road that the hair salon was on. I knew it was on Highway 78, but as we weren't really sure where that was...
We found it entirely by accident and then I nearly drove past because I missed the sigh for the hair salon. 35-40 minutes later, we were in the salon and I was getting my hairs cut.
We left the salon at 12:30. Joey was real hungry so we got subs real quick. My friend said "Oh, it's real easy to get back. Just stay on 78 and it'll take you right there."
And so we did.
I turned left because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Twenty minutes later, the towns were getting smaller, the road was down to two lanes (not something we've seen for awhile), and our hopes of ever seeing Dallas again were getting kinda slim.
"Um, I think I turned the wrong direction." I admitted to Joey.
"I think you did too." He concurred.
And so I turned the car around. The first sign we saw read: Dallas 34
We were thirty-four miles off course. Oy. That's halfway to the state border.
By this time it was very nearly 1:00. The drive back to Wylie was pretty quick, all things considered. But the drive just kept going. We found ourselves quite unsure of where we were, and quite unable to actually find Dallas.
Stinkin' Highway 78 was not taking us to anywhere that we knew.
I had dropped the ball on the getting of the directions yet again.
By 1:30, Joey and I realized that we were utterly lost. We knew where we wanted to go, but we couldn't figure out how to ask someone how to get there. It was the kind of lost where you don't even know what kind of landmark you should ask for directions to...because you're not sure where you are in relation to that landmark.
We finally made it to a freeway system that we recognized.
We got on it and, to our dismay, after five miles it was jammed because of an accident. We pulled off and were about to get onto the road that would take us home when all traffic stopped again.
A funeral procession.
I was about to stick my head out of the car and scream. It had been almost an hour and a half since we left Wylie. (It's only 20 miles of four-lane road from our apartment in Dallas.)
And, thus, I have learned my lesson. It is twofold:
1. Always print off directions from Google Maps. Never assume that I actually know how to get somewhere.
2. Have Joey drive.
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Case Of The Mysterious Poo Bag High Up In The Tree
Joey and I walked to Target to pick up some IBC to drink while we watched our movie. We were on our way back when Joey suddenly said, "OH! I forgot to tell you something funny that I saw!"
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, I was coming home tonight and I was by the Dumpster in the corner of the parking lot and I saw a blue bag up in the tree above the Dumpster, just like the kind we use for Henry's poo! Isn't that weird?"
"Um...well, see I was going to tell you about that..." I sort of trailed off.
"HEY!"
"Did you already know I did that and were just baiting me to see if I'd tell you?" I asked.
"No, I had no idea, I just thought it was weird. Now what happened?"
And so I began to tell him the story I'm about to tell you.........
Henry and I were out walking on Wednesday afternoon. He did his little doggy business, so I picked it up in the little blue bags that we carry on his leash for just that purpose.
When we came to the Dumpster, I thought it would be really fun to make a full circle with my arm and then release the bag of poo at just the right moment, whereby it would fly into the Dumpster and I would be impressed with myself.
I tried once. It smacked against the side of the Dumpster rather unimpressively.
I tried again. I released the bag of poo much higher this time.
Quite a bit higher, actually...
I never saw it land. Never heard it land, either.
This struck me as odd, but since I couldn't see if and didn't know where it was, there wasn't anything I could do about it. Henry and I went back home and I forgot about it.
Until Thursday when I was on my way in from work. I was walking past the Dumpster when I noticed a bright blue object (a bird maybe?) rather high up in the tree.
Upon closer examination I realized it was the bag of Henry's poo that I had inadvertently flung into the tree. It's pretty far up there, too.
As I do whenever I do anything dumb/amazing, I called The Kid to relay my predicament. He said that it was a pretty awesome story but he had no suggestions for how to actually get the poo out of the tree. (He's not real handy in a pinch, I tell you what.)
And then I forgot about the little blue bag of Henry poo.
Until this evening.
And now you know as much as Joey does, and The Case Of The Mysterious Poo Bag High Up In The Tree has been solved. Whew, I feel better now.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, I was coming home tonight and I was by the Dumpster in the corner of the parking lot and I saw a blue bag up in the tree above the Dumpster, just like the kind we use for Henry's poo! Isn't that weird?"
"Um...well, see I was going to tell you about that..." I sort of trailed off.
"HEY!"
"Did you already know I did that and were just baiting me to see if I'd tell you?" I asked.
"No, I had no idea, I just thought it was weird. Now what happened?"
And so I began to tell him the story I'm about to tell you.........
Henry and I were out walking on Wednesday afternoon. He did his little doggy business, so I picked it up in the little blue bags that we carry on his leash for just that purpose.
When we came to the Dumpster, I thought it would be really fun to make a full circle with my arm and then release the bag of poo at just the right moment, whereby it would fly into the Dumpster and I would be impressed with myself.
I tried once. It smacked against the side of the Dumpster rather unimpressively.
I tried again. I released the bag of poo much higher this time.
Quite a bit higher, actually...
I never saw it land. Never heard it land, either.
This struck me as odd, but since I couldn't see if and didn't know where it was, there wasn't anything I could do about it. Henry and I went back home and I forgot about it.
Until Thursday when I was on my way in from work. I was walking past the Dumpster when I noticed a bright blue object (a bird maybe?) rather high up in the tree.
Upon closer examination I realized it was the bag of Henry's poo that I had inadvertently flung into the tree. It's pretty far up there, too.
As I do whenever I do anything dumb/amazing, I called The Kid to relay my predicament. He said that it was a pretty awesome story but he had no suggestions for how to actually get the poo out of the tree. (He's not real handy in a pinch, I tell you what.)
And then I forgot about the little blue bag of Henry poo.
Until this evening.
And now you know as much as Joey does, and The Case Of The Mysterious Poo Bag High Up In The Tree has been solved. Whew, I feel better now.
It's Friday
It's Friday and I'm cold.
Earlier there was a real big flying bird (seemed like some kind of eagle, but I don't know if we have those in Texas) soaring around outside my window. It's odd to be level with huge, soaring bird. Especially one that's screeching and seems like it's going to dive bomb your window.
But if the bird did crash into somebody's window it was a floor or two down, I never heard anybody scream.
I just could not think of anything good to blog about today. I think my material's drying up or something. Nothing disastrous (or even semi funny) has been happening to me lately. I've been...normal.
And it feels strange.
I need to start getting into trouble again so I can have something good to write about.
But...it seems like my creativity is broken. At least until something dramatic happens to me again, then I'll be on a roll.
I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow.
Earlier there was a real big flying bird (seemed like some kind of eagle, but I don't know if we have those in Texas) soaring around outside my window. It's odd to be level with huge, soaring bird. Especially one that's screeching and seems like it's going to dive bomb your window.
But if the bird did crash into somebody's window it was a floor or two down, I never heard anybody scream.
I just could not think of anything good to blog about today. I think my material's drying up or something. Nothing disastrous (or even semi funny) has been happening to me lately. I've been...normal.
And it feels strange.
I need to start getting into trouble again so I can have something good to write about.
But...it seems like my creativity is broken. At least until something dramatic happens to me again, then I'll be on a roll.
I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
The Downtown Library
Last night Joey and I decided to go check out the downtown library. Supposedly it's supposed to be one of The Things To See when you come to Dallas, and they have a signed copy of the Declaration of Independence on display.
Because I was the one who got directions from Google, we wound up taking the long way. (When I say "long way" I mean that we did three sides of a box to get there instead of a more direct route.)
Once we found the library (and found the parking garage, even more of a challenge!), we discovered that we had to pay to park. Now that's taxpayer dollars at work for you, right there.
We were slightly piqued that we had to pay at all, and our library trip was starting to go downhill.
I should mention that Joey and I have been soundly displeased with the Dallas Public Library thus far. The card catalog system is the most confusing thing I've ever tried to use, it took 3 months for me to get a book I'd requested from another branch of the library (and it wasn't lost!), and thus far I haven't actually been able to find any of the books I'm looking for in my branch. Most of the books they have (or don't have) are either checked out or lost.
Sigh. Des Moines had the best public library system, I really miss it.
So there we were, getting out of our car in the parking garage under the library.
"Why did they put a dropped ceiling in here?" I asked Joey. "It's all gray and dirty from the car pollution."
"I don't know," Joey said, as he usually does when I ask questions that he can't possibly answer because he's not a mind reader.
We walked into the elevator enclosure and were encountered by a really bored looking security guard. I don't think she ever moved while we walked past her; I'm not sure she was actually alive. She might have just been a mannequin to try to intimidate people.
In the elevator there were nine floors. I had high expectations that we'd have nine levels of books.
The elevator doors opened and we were deposited into a large, dimly lit, open room. Books filled half of it and the other half was the checkout area, used bookstore, and computers.
I need to mention that some extremely tacky people were using their computers. Seriously, somebody needs to monitor what shady guys are looking at on computers that I paid for with my tax dollars. (Not a lot of my tax dollars yet, but still. A little decency.)
We went up to the kids section and were politely informed by the librarian that this section was for children up to age 14 and we didn't fit the qualifications. He really was very nice, but I was quite taken aback. He was basically telling us to leave.
Joey asked him to look up a book, I asked him to look up a book (the entire library system didn't have either!) and we left, just like he wanted.
We then went downstairs to find the fiction section. I was informed that the books on the first level were all the books the main library had. Period.
It was smaller than Kirkendall.
Joey and I, frustrated with what we had hoped to be a lovely and enjoyable adventure, left before we could find out if that copy of the Declaration of Independence was really there or not.
We didn't think it really was.
Our analysis of the downtown branch: a place for teenagers, homeless people and otherwise bored individuals to surf the internet, but not check out any books as there are very few to be had.
I'm sorry to be harsh on any public library, but there it is: don't waste your time! Half Price Books and the church library is a better bet if you're actually looking for something to read.
Because I was the one who got directions from Google, we wound up taking the long way. (When I say "long way" I mean that we did three sides of a box to get there instead of a more direct route.)
Once we found the library (and found the parking garage, even more of a challenge!), we discovered that we had to pay to park. Now that's taxpayer dollars at work for you, right there.
We were slightly piqued that we had to pay at all, and our library trip was starting to go downhill.
I should mention that Joey and I have been soundly displeased with the Dallas Public Library thus far. The card catalog system is the most confusing thing I've ever tried to use, it took 3 months for me to get a book I'd requested from another branch of the library (and it wasn't lost!), and thus far I haven't actually been able to find any of the books I'm looking for in my branch. Most of the books they have (or don't have) are either checked out or lost.
Sigh. Des Moines had the best public library system, I really miss it.
So there we were, getting out of our car in the parking garage under the library.
"Why did they put a dropped ceiling in here?" I asked Joey. "It's all gray and dirty from the car pollution."
"I don't know," Joey said, as he usually does when I ask questions that he can't possibly answer because he's not a mind reader.
We walked into the elevator enclosure and were encountered by a really bored looking security guard. I don't think she ever moved while we walked past her; I'm not sure she was actually alive. She might have just been a mannequin to try to intimidate people.
In the elevator there were nine floors. I had high expectations that we'd have nine levels of books.
The elevator doors opened and we were deposited into a large, dimly lit, open room. Books filled half of it and the other half was the checkout area, used bookstore, and computers.
I need to mention that some extremely tacky people were using their computers. Seriously, somebody needs to monitor what shady guys are looking at on computers that I paid for with my tax dollars. (Not a lot of my tax dollars yet, but still. A little decency.)
We went up to the kids section and were politely informed by the librarian that this section was for children up to age 14 and we didn't fit the qualifications. He really was very nice, but I was quite taken aback. He was basically telling us to leave.
Joey asked him to look up a book, I asked him to look up a book (the entire library system didn't have either!) and we left, just like he wanted.
We then went downstairs to find the fiction section. I was informed that the books on the first level were all the books the main library had. Period.
It was smaller than Kirkendall.
Joey and I, frustrated with what we had hoped to be a lovely and enjoyable adventure, left before we could find out if that copy of the Declaration of Independence was really there or not.
We didn't think it really was.
Our analysis of the downtown branch: a place for teenagers, homeless people and otherwise bored individuals to surf the internet, but not check out any books as there are very few to be had.
I'm sorry to be harsh on any public library, but there it is: don't waste your time! Half Price Books and the church library is a better bet if you're actually looking for something to read.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Last night Joey was sick with a rather substantial fever, so Henry and I took to the streets in an effort to keep the house quiet for him to sleep. I had been working in the kitchen but kept dropping things and waking poor Joey out of his feverish slumber on the couch. I decided it was better for all parties involved (especially my dishes) if I quit what I was doing and went outside.
I grabbed the last two nasty hot dog buns that I have been saving to feed to the fish/ducks/pigeons, and Henry and I were on our merry way.
After I gave Joey some Sprite, crackers, a cell phone, and told him where we were going. (Not that he remembered it.)
Ever since changing Henry's food last week, he's been extremely high energy. He was high energy before, but now he's like a dog on fire or something. (It's really annoying.) So I've been trying to take him on long walks to burn off all this newfound energy. Hasn't really been working, but it's good for both of us.
I fed the nasty catfish an entire hot dog bun and was really amused at their frenzied attempts to get the bread. Henry wanted to jump in and get the fish and kept whining and shaking on the dock, so I decided we'd better go before he actually did jump in and get eaten by the catfish.
We then walked over to Henry's little swimming pool (a creek with a really deep spot in between the two lakes) so I could feed the ducks and ducklings.
Henry wanted to go swimming but instead sat there whining and shaking by the side of the lake. (I sense a theme with him...) He was also jealous that I was feeding bread to the ducklings and not him. He's got issues.
I successfully kept him from diving into the lake (barely) and then we decided we'd better go to Petsmart to get some little doggy dropping bags.
We finally got to Petsmart.
I was in the toy aisle examining a rabbit squeaker toy when Henry grabbed it out of my hands and then tore off down the aisle to try to keep me from taking it away from him. I have never seen him become so obsessed with a toy that fast, but I had to pry the toy out of his mouth. Everyone in the aisle was laughing at me/him and making comments like "wow, he really wants that rabbit" etc.
He didn't get the rabbit.
We were on our way out of the store, dropping bags in hand, when two huge labs (one chocolate and one golden) walked by. Henry was SO excited. He began skittering around on the linoleum floor excitedly. The labs came over and smells were exchanged between dogs.
I was just getting ready to sign for the transaction when Henry suddenly got scared of the chocolate lab and tried to run out of the store. All he managed to do was screw up my signature. But the clerk was nice and offered Henry a treat (he didn't want it); we left the store mostly unscathed.
We walked the half a mile home fairly uneventfully. After walking for an entire hour, Henry still had enough energy to bring me every single ball and stuffed animal that he has to see if I'd play fetch with him.
I need a nanny for my dog.
Sister?
I grabbed the last two nasty hot dog buns that I have been saving to feed to the fish/ducks/pigeons, and Henry and I were on our merry way.
After I gave Joey some Sprite, crackers, a cell phone, and told him where we were going. (Not that he remembered it.)
Ever since changing Henry's food last week, he's been extremely high energy. He was high energy before, but now he's like a dog on fire or something. (It's really annoying.) So I've been trying to take him on long walks to burn off all this newfound energy. Hasn't really been working, but it's good for both of us.
I fed the nasty catfish an entire hot dog bun and was really amused at their frenzied attempts to get the bread. Henry wanted to jump in and get the fish and kept whining and shaking on the dock, so I decided we'd better go before he actually did jump in and get eaten by the catfish.
We then walked over to Henry's little swimming pool (a creek with a really deep spot in between the two lakes) so I could feed the ducks and ducklings.
Henry wanted to go swimming but instead sat there whining and shaking by the side of the lake. (I sense a theme with him...) He was also jealous that I was feeding bread to the ducklings and not him. He's got issues.
I successfully kept him from diving into the lake (barely) and then we decided we'd better go to Petsmart to get some little doggy dropping bags.
We finally got to Petsmart.
I was in the toy aisle examining a rabbit squeaker toy when Henry grabbed it out of my hands and then tore off down the aisle to try to keep me from taking it away from him. I have never seen him become so obsessed with a toy that fast, but I had to pry the toy out of his mouth. Everyone in the aisle was laughing at me/him and making comments like "wow, he really wants that rabbit" etc.
He didn't get the rabbit.
We were on our way out of the store, dropping bags in hand, when two huge labs (one chocolate and one golden) walked by. Henry was SO excited. He began skittering around on the linoleum floor excitedly. The labs came over and smells were exchanged between dogs.
I was just getting ready to sign for the transaction when Henry suddenly got scared of the chocolate lab and tried to run out of the store. All he managed to do was screw up my signature. But the clerk was nice and offered Henry a treat (he didn't want it); we left the store mostly unscathed.
We walked the half a mile home fairly uneventfully. After walking for an entire hour, Henry still had enough energy to bring me every single ball and stuffed animal that he has to see if I'd play fetch with him.
I need a nanny for my dog.
Sister?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I Think My Pops Is Following Me
I was lazy this morning and didn't get up until 7:00, which resulted in my not enough time to take a decent shower as I have to leave at 7:30. I suppose one could say it was my own fault.
Due to my strange "shower" and the fact that I got up 30 minutes before I was supposed to leave, I am having a Very Bad Hair Day. There is absolutely no excuse for it, especially since it could have been avoided entirely by getting up at 6:00 when my alarm went off the first time.
(I've been married to Joey for too long; I never used to slap the snooze or reset my alarm.)
Anyway, here I was this morning, semi-bathed, very perfumed, and feeling really odd looking. About 10:00 a.m. I started noticing it. Everywhere I went I smelled a really familiar smell. Not a bad smell, just a familiar one.
I couldn't figure out what it was until about noon.
Pops' deodorant. Every time I moved, I smelled it. (And I know what it smells like because I used to test it out when I was a kid.)
So I'm not sure what this means...maybe Pops turned himself invisible and is following me around?
Due to my strange "shower" and the fact that I got up 30 minutes before I was supposed to leave, I am having a Very Bad Hair Day. There is absolutely no excuse for it, especially since it could have been avoided entirely by getting up at 6:00 when my alarm went off the first time.
(I've been married to Joey for too long; I never used to slap the snooze or reset my alarm.)
Anyway, here I was this morning, semi-bathed, very perfumed, and feeling really odd looking. About 10:00 a.m. I started noticing it. Everywhere I went I smelled a really familiar smell. Not a bad smell, just a familiar one.
I couldn't figure out what it was until about noon.
Pops' deodorant. Every time I moved, I smelled it. (And I know what it smells like because I used to test it out when I was a kid.)
So I'm not sure what this means...maybe Pops turned himself invisible and is following me around?
Dermatology
I went to the dermatologist yesterday because I'm tired of getting zits. (Any woman who has been married for over 2 years and is very nearly 25 does not need zits any longer, in my opinion.)
After answering the same questions two times, such as "are you pregnant" or "are you on any medications" (The answer is NO to both of those, FYI...) the dermatologist said, "Well, I think I can solve your problem."
And she prescribed me FOUR medications. Four. (Now I have to remember what they're called so when I go to the doctor I can appropriately answer that "are you on any medications" question. It's not easy to do, some of the names hardly have any vowels in them.)
So then I said, "I have these two moles that keep getting bigger..."
And she whipped out her little mole-measuring stick and said, "Where are they?"
One is in between my big to and my first toe on my right foot. The other's on my leg. I showed her the one on my toe.
"Wow...How am I going to biopsy that?!" She asked to herself.
I almost told her it really wasn't necessary to do that; I don't like pain.
She measured it. "How much has it grown?"
I told her it came in the middle of college and has in the last year gotten as big as it has.
She made a hmmmmmmming sound. "I think I want to take that off."
I looked back and forth from the nurse to the doctor. "Must you?"
"Well...it's not cancer, but it's the kind that means you're susceptible to skin cancer - wear your sunscreen! - and there are some tissue abnormalities...." (she rambled off into some sort of doctor speak that I can't understand.)
I looked at my mole. I looked at the doctor. I looked at the nurse.
"IF you take it off it has to be in the winter," I said. "I want to wear flip flops."
The doctor and the nurse burst out laughing and Dr. Meduri said she could accommodate me. She scribbled some things on her chart, then looked up at her nurse and said, "We'll want to draw some blood."
They spoke in low, conspiratorial tones for a few minutes. I sat there in an uncomfortable silence until I couldn't take it anymore.
"From me?!" I sort of wailed.
The doctor and nurse laughed at me again. "Yes, from you." Dr. Meduri assured me.
"But why?!" I wailed again. "If I'd have known you were going to take my blood I'd have stayed home today."
And....the doctor and nurse laughed. Again. (I'm not sure they knew what to do with me."
I was not under the impression that dermatologists drew blood. I guess mine does. At any rate it's to make sure I won't die from one of the medicines they put me on. Something about potassium levels. She always checks to make sure the levels aren't too high before prescribing the medication.
The doctor assured me I'd be just fine, I thanked her (grudgingly) and she left. The nurse escorted me to the place where I payed and then gave me instructions to get to the blood-sucking station. It was on the third floor.
"So...since I'm going by myself and nobody's watching me you won't know if I just skip it and run away, right?"
The nurse laughed. "No, we'll be able to tell." She pointed me in the direction I was to go.
And so I went upstairs and got my blood drawn (OW!) like a good little girl.
Later that night I was washing my face with my new sulfur face wash. (It stinks; smells exactly like Yellowstone National Park on my face. Not pretty.) I sat back down on the couch with Joey and a few moments later he sniffed the air. He sniffed again.
"What is that smell?" He asked, rather impolitely.
I didn't answer.
"Is it you?!" He asked again.
I still didn't answer.
"It's your face!" He crowed. "Your face smells awful!"
Well...it did.
I leaned forward and tried to stick my cheek right under his nose so he could fully appreciate the awful smell of my Yellowstone face. He started wailing and pushing me away.
"That's a terrible smell! How long are you going to have to use that stuff?" He had his face buried in the blanket Sister had made me.
"For quite some time. Now get used to it." I said, and tried to attack him with my smelly face again.
The things women do for beauty...
After answering the same questions two times, such as "are you pregnant" or "are you on any medications" (The answer is NO to both of those, FYI...) the dermatologist said, "Well, I think I can solve your problem."
And she prescribed me FOUR medications. Four. (Now I have to remember what they're called so when I go to the doctor I can appropriately answer that "are you on any medications" question. It's not easy to do, some of the names hardly have any vowels in them.)
So then I said, "I have these two moles that keep getting bigger..."
And she whipped out her little mole-measuring stick and said, "Where are they?"
One is in between my big to and my first toe on my right foot. The other's on my leg. I showed her the one on my toe.
"Wow...How am I going to biopsy that?!" She asked to herself.
I almost told her it really wasn't necessary to do that; I don't like pain.
She measured it. "How much has it grown?"
I told her it came in the middle of college and has in the last year gotten as big as it has.
She made a hmmmmmmming sound. "I think I want to take that off."
I looked back and forth from the nurse to the doctor. "Must you?"
"Well...it's not cancer, but it's the kind that means you're susceptible to skin cancer - wear your sunscreen! - and there are some tissue abnormalities...." (she rambled off into some sort of doctor speak that I can't understand.)
I looked at my mole. I looked at the doctor. I looked at the nurse.
"IF you take it off it has to be in the winter," I said. "I want to wear flip flops."
The doctor and the nurse burst out laughing and Dr. Meduri said she could accommodate me. She scribbled some things on her chart, then looked up at her nurse and said, "We'll want to draw some blood."
They spoke in low, conspiratorial tones for a few minutes. I sat there in an uncomfortable silence until I couldn't take it anymore.
"From me?!" I sort of wailed.
The doctor and nurse laughed at me again. "Yes, from you." Dr. Meduri assured me.
"But why?!" I wailed again. "If I'd have known you were going to take my blood I'd have stayed home today."
And....the doctor and nurse laughed. Again. (I'm not sure they knew what to do with me."
I was not under the impression that dermatologists drew blood. I guess mine does. At any rate it's to make sure I won't die from one of the medicines they put me on. Something about potassium levels. She always checks to make sure the levels aren't too high before prescribing the medication.
The doctor assured me I'd be just fine, I thanked her (grudgingly) and she left. The nurse escorted me to the place where I payed and then gave me instructions to get to the blood-sucking station. It was on the third floor.
"So...since I'm going by myself and nobody's watching me you won't know if I just skip it and run away, right?"
The nurse laughed. "No, we'll be able to tell." She pointed me in the direction I was to go.
And so I went upstairs and got my blood drawn (OW!) like a good little girl.
Later that night I was washing my face with my new sulfur face wash. (It stinks; smells exactly like Yellowstone National Park on my face. Not pretty.) I sat back down on the couch with Joey and a few moments later he sniffed the air. He sniffed again.
"What is that smell?" He asked, rather impolitely.
I didn't answer.
"Is it you?!" He asked again.
I still didn't answer.
"It's your face!" He crowed. "Your face smells awful!"
Well...it did.
I leaned forward and tried to stick my cheek right under his nose so he could fully appreciate the awful smell of my Yellowstone face. He started wailing and pushing me away.
"That's a terrible smell! How long are you going to have to use that stuff?" He had his face buried in the blanket Sister had made me.
"For quite some time. Now get used to it." I said, and tried to attack him with my smelly face again.
The things women do for beauty...
Monday, May 14, 2007
The New Bed
It's my anniversary today; happy anniversary to me! (Oh, and Joey too.)
Anyways...
On Saturday we got the last piece from IKEA that was necessary to construct our new bed. (It had previously been leaning against the wall in our apartment for a week as the sidebars were out of stock last weekend. But that's a story for another day.)
All in all, the bed looks exceptionally nice. (It has a real headboard and a real footboard! Not one that has been poorly constructed out of cardboard and three layers of batting, covered over with ivory material that got stained when I spilled on it!)
Henry, poor guy, is not at all happy with our new bed. He gets all concerned and confused when he hops up there, only to realize he can't just jump off the end of the bed anymore. There's Something There now. He just sat there and stared at the footboard the first night we had it. It was pretty funny.
Joey, on the other hand...
After he put the whole thing together on Saturday morning he climbed into bed to test it out.
"This isn't going to work." He said.
"What?!" I asked, horrified. (I really like the bed. It's super cute.)
"It's not going to work. I always hang my arms and legs off the ends of the bed. Now I have something stopping me on both ends."
A serious problem, indeed.
"You're just going to have to learn to adjust," I said, sensitively.
Joey made some growling noises and attempted to stick his arms and legs off the bed at the same time. He had limited success.
(Aside: My husband isn't actually that tall. I'm still not sure how he manages to stick both his arms and legs off the bed at the same time and still sleep comfortably.)
Fast forward to last night.
Joey and I decided to be lazy and watch The King and I. We started it at 9:00 so we only watched the first half. It was just enough, however; I was quite inspired and walked around the house singing such songs as "I Have Dreamed" and "Shall We Dance" while I got ready for bed.
Fortunately Joey likes it when I sing.
By 10:30 we were finally ready to fall asleep. I was just about there when I heard a faint clang, clang, clang and scratching sound. Henry was in his kennel, so I figured he was clawing at the sides.
After about 10 minutes, I was getting annoyed.
"What IS that noise?" I asked, sleepily.
"What noise." Joey was sort of bouncing from the Mt. Dew he drank while we watched The King and I.
"That clanging noise. Is Henry freaking out in his kennel?"
"No way, he's out. He got worn out when Kat borrowed him earlier." (Our neighbor likes to borrow our dog.)
"Well it's bothering me," I said. "Is there something in the house that shouldn't be?"
"Oh...." Joey said, sheepishly. "This clanging noise?"
I heard it again.
"Yes, that."
"That's me. I'll stop." He'd been drumming his fingernails (or lack thereof) on the black metal bed frame.
"Yeah...it's really annoying..." I said, and fell mostly asleep.
At 11:30 I awoke with a start. A very LOUD noise had just reverberated by my head.
"Jooooeeeeeey!!!" I hissed.
Nothing. He was very asleep.
"Stop banging your wedding ring on the bed!"
Still nothing. I poked him with my foot for good measure.
"Whaa?!" He woke up, surprised.
"You scared me. You banged your wedding ring on the frame really loud and it scared me."
"Oh........sorry......" And he was asleep again.
With his arms all woven through the headboard so they could sufficiently hang off. What a guy.
Anyways...
On Saturday we got the last piece from IKEA that was necessary to construct our new bed. (It had previously been leaning against the wall in our apartment for a week as the sidebars were out of stock last weekend. But that's a story for another day.)
All in all, the bed looks exceptionally nice. (It has a real headboard and a real footboard! Not one that has been poorly constructed out of cardboard and three layers of batting, covered over with ivory material that got stained when I spilled on it!)
Henry, poor guy, is not at all happy with our new bed. He gets all concerned and confused when he hops up there, only to realize he can't just jump off the end of the bed anymore. There's Something There now. He just sat there and stared at the footboard the first night we had it. It was pretty funny.
Joey, on the other hand...
After he put the whole thing together on Saturday morning he climbed into bed to test it out.
"This isn't going to work." He said.
"What?!" I asked, horrified. (I really like the bed. It's super cute.)
"It's not going to work. I always hang my arms and legs off the ends of the bed. Now I have something stopping me on both ends."
A serious problem, indeed.
"You're just going to have to learn to adjust," I said, sensitively.
Joey made some growling noises and attempted to stick his arms and legs off the bed at the same time. He had limited success.
(Aside: My husband isn't actually that tall. I'm still not sure how he manages to stick both his arms and legs off the bed at the same time and still sleep comfortably.)
Fast forward to last night.
Joey and I decided to be lazy and watch The King and I. We started it at 9:00 so we only watched the first half. It was just enough, however; I was quite inspired and walked around the house singing such songs as "I Have Dreamed" and "Shall We Dance" while I got ready for bed.
Fortunately Joey likes it when I sing.
By 10:30 we were finally ready to fall asleep. I was just about there when I heard a faint clang, clang, clang and scratching sound. Henry was in his kennel, so I figured he was clawing at the sides.
After about 10 minutes, I was getting annoyed.
"What IS that noise?" I asked, sleepily.
"What noise." Joey was sort of bouncing from the Mt. Dew he drank while we watched The King and I.
"That clanging noise. Is Henry freaking out in his kennel?"
"No way, he's out. He got worn out when Kat borrowed him earlier." (Our neighbor likes to borrow our dog.)
"Well it's bothering me," I said. "Is there something in the house that shouldn't be?"
"Oh...." Joey said, sheepishly. "This clanging noise?"
I heard it again.
"Yes, that."
"That's me. I'll stop." He'd been drumming his fingernails (or lack thereof) on the black metal bed frame.
"Yeah...it's really annoying..." I said, and fell mostly asleep.
At 11:30 I awoke with a start. A very LOUD noise had just reverberated by my head.
"Jooooeeeeeey!!!" I hissed.
Nothing. He was very asleep.
"Stop banging your wedding ring on the bed!"
Still nothing. I poked him with my foot for good measure.
"Whaa?!" He woke up, surprised.
"You scared me. You banged your wedding ring on the frame really loud and it scared me."
"Oh........sorry......" And he was asleep again.
With his arms all woven through the headboard so they could sufficiently hang off. What a guy.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Majesty
As has previously been discussed, The Kid has close to a zillion nicknames. I have one more to add to that list: Majesty.
It came about the way most all of The Kid's nicknames come about. He popped online one day and I started to send him an IM. The first thing that came to my mind was "Majesty", and so I wrote it.
Since then, he has been Majesty. And I am his loyal subject.
(Our mom is unsure whether or not her youngest is actually "Majestic", and I have the email to prove it!)
Last night before we fell asleep Joey and I were talking about The Kid and his Majesty.
"Why do you call him Majesty again?" Joey asked.
"He has tons of majesty!" I said, then explained it to him ending with, "And I am his loyal subject."
Joey sort of did this odd snort-like thing. "Then I am his disloyal subject!" He proclaimed, forcefully.
"NO!" I gasped, horrified. "You cannot be disloyal to the Majesty!"
"Yes, I can." Joey said firmly.
And I suppose it was settled. I am the Majesty's loyal subject, and Joey's his disloyal subject.
But I suppose they'll still do most everything together when we're up in Iowa and probably leave me at home while they do it. Seems to be the usual practice, anyway. (But as it generally involves places like Best Buy, I'm fine with that.)
Majesty; my liege.
It came about the way most all of The Kid's nicknames come about. He popped online one day and I started to send him an IM. The first thing that came to my mind was "Majesty", and so I wrote it.
Since then, he has been Majesty. And I am his loyal subject.
(Our mom is unsure whether or not her youngest is actually "Majestic", and I have the email to prove it!)
Last night before we fell asleep Joey and I were talking about The Kid and his Majesty.
"Why do you call him Majesty again?" Joey asked.
"He has tons of majesty!" I said, then explained it to him ending with, "And I am his loyal subject."
Joey sort of did this odd snort-like thing. "Then I am his disloyal subject!" He proclaimed, forcefully.
"NO!" I gasped, horrified. "You cannot be disloyal to the Majesty!"
"Yes, I can." Joey said firmly.
And I suppose it was settled. I am the Majesty's loyal subject, and Joey's his disloyal subject.
But I suppose they'll still do most everything together when we're up in Iowa and probably leave me at home while they do it. Seems to be the usual practice, anyway. (But as it generally involves places like Best Buy, I'm fine with that.)
Majesty; my liege.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
I Am Short, Part Eleventy Billion
I wear 3-4 inch heels every day. It's fun to make that clack clack noise on marble floors, I think. At any rate, most days I'm 5'4" or maybe even 5'5" depending on the shoes.
Today I wore flats. Extremely flat flats.
I was standing by a cabinet, staring at the wall trying to remember what I was doing when someone came over to me. She stopped, looked down at the top of my head and said, "Wow...you're really short. I didn't realize."
I looked up. (A bit farther up than normal, mind you.) "Yeah, I'm short."
"I knew you were short..." she sort of trailed off. Then, "Do you have trouble at amusement parks?"
You know, those little You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride signs and whatnot.
"Well, no. I'm over 5 feet. But I that line on the You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride sign did come up to my nose," I said.
She laughed, I laughed, passers-by laughed. Suddenly the whole thing became awkward and we all went back from whence we came. I sat down and thought I might just need to go home and listen to "Short People Got No Reason To Live".
We've got beady little eyes, you know. And nasty little feet. (According to the song, anyway.)
Today I wore flats. Extremely flat flats.
I was standing by a cabinet, staring at the wall trying to remember what I was doing when someone came over to me. She stopped, looked down at the top of my head and said, "Wow...you're really short. I didn't realize."
I looked up. (A bit farther up than normal, mind you.) "Yeah, I'm short."
"I knew you were short..." she sort of trailed off. Then, "Do you have trouble at amusement parks?"
You know, those little You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride signs and whatnot.
"Well, no. I'm over 5 feet. But I that line on the You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride sign did come up to my nose," I said.
She laughed, I laughed, passers-by laughed. Suddenly the whole thing became awkward and we all went back from whence we came. I sat down and thought I might just need to go home and listen to "Short People Got No Reason To Live".
We've got beady little eyes, you know. And nasty little feet. (According to the song, anyway.)
Monday, May 07, 2007
Our Free $200 Mistake
Joey and I went to the Dallas Symphony on Friday night to hear Tchaikovsky's Second Piano Concerto. We're going on Saturday to hear his First, which I'm quite pleased about!
Joey's able to get free tickets for us from DTS, so we thought we'd take advantage of it as much as possible. (Especially considering we'd never be able to afford to go on a regular basis--the cheap seats are $25 each!)
We were late on Friday.
In order to make what is normally a very expensive evening out entirely free, we park on the other side of the freeway (about 5 blocks away) at a place where I can park for free, then walk over to the Meyerson. (That saves us $10 parking.) On Friday, we didn't leave in time and didn't get to the parking garage until 7:50; the concert began at 8:00.
And I was wearing stilettos.
We ran/limped as fast as we could to the Meyerson (I got blisters), Joey got our tickets while I waited upstairs, and we rushed in to see if we could be seated...ten minutes late.
The usher looked at our ticket and said, "Section A, seats 8 and 9, are to your left, all the way down."
(We were quite giddy; the left side is ideal during a piano concerto because it's perfect to see the pianist's hands.)
We scurried down the hall and Joey said, "Section A, seats 8 and 9! Here we are." No ushers were standing in the hall to direct us, so we opened the door and found ourselves in a tiny, soundproof antechamber.
Odd.
We opened the second door and found ourselves in the absolute best seats in the house; we were one level up, directly over the pianist's right shoulder. We sat down in our chairs (not theater seats, but individual, velvet lined armchairs) and looked at each other with big eyes.
The other couples in the box looked at us funny, but we decided we didn't care.
At intermission the box cleared out and Joey and I sat looking at the theater map, trying to figure out exactly where we were sitting.
"I think we're in this section here," Joey pointed to a section on the map.
"No, I think we're here," I said, pointing to the loge box section. "But that can't be right because these are free tickets."
He pulled out the tickets and noted that they said Choral Terrace, Section A, seats 8 and 9.
"Um....I think we're in the wrong spot." Joey said. He'd gone a little pale.
I looked at the tickets. "OH NO." I said.
The Choral Terrace is where the chorus stands when they sing with the symphony. They're the cheap, cheap seats that are up above the symphony.
"We'd better go look and see if that matches out tickets," Joey said.
We picked up our things and slid out of the box, careful not to be seen by the other (snobs) in the section.
Sure enough, we were in the wrong spot. That was quite obvious when we got to the Choral Terrace.
"Let's go back to our original seats. Nobody kicked us out of them and they're way better than these." Joey whispered.
And so we went back to our $100 per ticket seats and enjoyed the rest of the concert.
Joey's able to get free tickets for us from DTS, so we thought we'd take advantage of it as much as possible. (Especially considering we'd never be able to afford to go on a regular basis--the cheap seats are $25 each!)
We were late on Friday.
In order to make what is normally a very expensive evening out entirely free, we park on the other side of the freeway (about 5 blocks away) at a place where I can park for free, then walk over to the Meyerson. (That saves us $10 parking.) On Friday, we didn't leave in time and didn't get to the parking garage until 7:50; the concert began at 8:00.
And I was wearing stilettos.
We ran/limped as fast as we could to the Meyerson (I got blisters), Joey got our tickets while I waited upstairs, and we rushed in to see if we could be seated...ten minutes late.
The usher looked at our ticket and said, "Section A, seats 8 and 9, are to your left, all the way down."
(We were quite giddy; the left side is ideal during a piano concerto because it's perfect to see the pianist's hands.)
We scurried down the hall and Joey said, "Section A, seats 8 and 9! Here we are." No ushers were standing in the hall to direct us, so we opened the door and found ourselves in a tiny, soundproof antechamber.
Odd.
We opened the second door and found ourselves in the absolute best seats in the house; we were one level up, directly over the pianist's right shoulder. We sat down in our chairs (not theater seats, but individual, velvet lined armchairs) and looked at each other with big eyes.
The other couples in the box looked at us funny, but we decided we didn't care.
At intermission the box cleared out and Joey and I sat looking at the theater map, trying to figure out exactly where we were sitting.
"I think we're in this section here," Joey pointed to a section on the map.
"No, I think we're here," I said, pointing to the loge box section. "But that can't be right because these are free tickets."
He pulled out the tickets and noted that they said Choral Terrace, Section A, seats 8 and 9.
"Um....I think we're in the wrong spot." Joey said. He'd gone a little pale.
I looked at the tickets. "OH NO." I said.
The Choral Terrace is where the chorus stands when they sing with the symphony. They're the cheap, cheap seats that are up above the symphony.
"We'd better go look and see if that matches out tickets," Joey said.
We picked up our things and slid out of the box, careful not to be seen by the other (snobs) in the section.
Sure enough, we were in the wrong spot. That was quite obvious when we got to the Choral Terrace.
"Let's go back to our original seats. Nobody kicked us out of them and they're way better than these." Joey whispered.
And so we went back to our $100 per ticket seats and enjoyed the rest of the concert.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
I'm Guess I'm Obviously Married
I was on the phone with a guy from the east coast this morning. It was an interesting conversation. First he said I was very "soft spoken" and that he wasn't used to that out on the east coast. (That's fine with me---you won't catch me talking loudly and saying nasal rounded vowels just to fit in.)
Then, when I was trying to spell my name for him so he could update his records, he really put his foot in his mouth.
"J-e-n-n-a," I spelled for him, "W-o-e-s-t-m-a-n."
"Eh? What was that? A 'P'?" He asked, loudly.
"No, it's a 't'. W-o-e-s-t-m-a-n. Woestman." I spelled then pronounced for him.
"Wow....Woostman. That's a last name for ya." He said. (He mispronounced it regardless of the fact that I had correctly pronounced it several times in the last three minutes we'd been on the phone.)
I coughed, unsure of what exactly to say to that.
"You must be married." He charged on.
I thought, and if I wasn't?
"No parents in their right mind would name their baby daughter Jenna Woostman."
"Yes...I am married..." I said, slowly.
"That's what I thought. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a funny last name too. But there's lots of Italians in The City and so they don't make fun of me."
I considered saying, "Well, nobody in Texas makes fun of me either. And they're not even German," but I held my tongue.
Me and my funny name decided it was time to end this conversation, so I laughed a couple of times, told him "thank you very much" and hung up. I stared at my telephone receiver and shook my head.
One of the stranger phone calls I've had in a long time.
For the record:
1. Yes, I'm married (2 years on the 14th!)
2. No, it's not pronounced Woostman. It's Woestman as in Whee!-stman.
Then, when I was trying to spell my name for him so he could update his records, he really put his foot in his mouth.
"J-e-n-n-a," I spelled for him, "W-o-e-s-t-m-a-n."
"Eh? What was that? A 'P'?" He asked, loudly.
"No, it's a 't'. W-o-e-s-t-m-a-n. Woestman." I spelled then pronounced for him.
"Wow....Woostman. That's a last name for ya." He said. (He mispronounced it regardless of the fact that I had correctly pronounced it several times in the last three minutes we'd been on the phone.)
I coughed, unsure of what exactly to say to that.
"You must be married." He charged on.
I thought, and if I wasn't?
"No parents in their right mind would name their baby daughter Jenna Woostman."
"Yes...I am married..." I said, slowly.
"That's what I thought. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a funny last name too. But there's lots of Italians in The City and so they don't make fun of me."
I considered saying, "Well, nobody in Texas makes fun of me either. And they're not even German," but I held my tongue.
Me and my funny name decided it was time to end this conversation, so I laughed a couple of times, told him "thank you very much" and hung up. I stared at my telephone receiver and shook my head.
One of the stranger phone calls I've had in a long time.
For the record:
1. Yes, I'm married (2 years on the 14th!)
2. No, it's not pronounced Woostman. It's Woestman as in Whee!-stman.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
In Which I Roast The Thermometer And Bake The Beans
Last night was not a good culinary night for Jenna M. Woestman.
When I got home I quickly prepared the pork loin (sniffing it to make sure it didn't smell spoiled from its 9 hour counter-sitting spell; it didn't), stuck it in the oven, set the table and got to work on my housework for the evening.
I am, by nature and, perhaps, to a fault, an overproductive multi-tasker.
At one point I was concurrently heating the iron, setting the table, fixing my snap beans, and listening to NPR news. I got the snap beans snapped, put in the steamer and set them on the stove to prepare later. I set out the toaster, put two slices of bread in it, finished setting the table, and went to begin ironing.
Joey came home just then and decided that HE was going to do the ironing for me because he loves me so much. So I let him.
I sat on the bed and listened to him tell me about his day while intermittently running back to the oven to baste the pork loin which I was, unfortunately, cooking within and inch of its life to make Absolutely Certain we wouldn't get food poisoning.
Joey finished ironing and I got the shears out and began to trim Henry. (Yes, I know, before dinner. I'm insane.) I'd started to give him a haircut the night before, but it had begun to rain so we had to quit. (I shear him on the balcony.)
Halfway through the haircut I popped up to put the meat thermometer in the pork loin (to test for doneness) and turn on the burner for the steamed green beans.
That completed I went back to shearing Henry.
I finished up Henry's back leg (he looks really, really odd now) and decided that was enough for one night. So I went to check the beans. Oddly enough, nothing was really happening. So I turned the burner down just a touch (something was smelling like it was burning, something on the burner maybe?) and sat down to read a few pages of my book.
Ten minutes later, the burnt smell was growing worse and worse. I went in the kitchen to analyze the situation and, to my great dismay, everything was going wrong at once.
"JOEY! I melted the thermometer!" I wailed.
It was most definitely melted; the screen was completely black and some strange green board and a bunch of wires were sticking out the side. It didn't look like I'd be able to use it again.
"No, not your favorite one?"
"YES! Maaaaaan, what am I going to do?" I had set it right next to the burner for the green beans and had forgot to move it when I turned the burner on. Such foolishness.
Then I noticed something was odd about the beans.
"I think I forgot to put water in the steamer for the beans." With that statement, Joey was off the couch and over at my side in a minute to survey the damage. And he was trying not to laugh.
"Yes, yes you did." The beans were really burned.
"What are we going to eat for dinner now? All we have is suspicious pork loin!" I dumped the beans into the trash, rather upset with myself.
"I guess we'll eat a lot of it." Joey said. He obviously thought this was funnier than it really was.
And, thus, I roasted my thermometer and baked my beans. Quite by accident.
I am now starting a Buy Jenna A New Thermometer fund, so if you want to contribute don't hesitate to let me know. Otherwise Joey says I'm grounded from thermometers for awhile until I learn my lesson. He's no fun at all.
When I got home I quickly prepared the pork loin (sniffing it to make sure it didn't smell spoiled from its 9 hour counter-sitting spell; it didn't), stuck it in the oven, set the table and got to work on my housework for the evening.
I am, by nature and, perhaps, to a fault, an overproductive multi-tasker.
At one point I was concurrently heating the iron, setting the table, fixing my snap beans, and listening to NPR news. I got the snap beans snapped, put in the steamer and set them on the stove to prepare later. I set out the toaster, put two slices of bread in it, finished setting the table, and went to begin ironing.
Joey came home just then and decided that HE was going to do the ironing for me because he loves me so much. So I let him.
I sat on the bed and listened to him tell me about his day while intermittently running back to the oven to baste the pork loin which I was, unfortunately, cooking within and inch of its life to make Absolutely Certain we wouldn't get food poisoning.
Joey finished ironing and I got the shears out and began to trim Henry. (Yes, I know, before dinner. I'm insane.) I'd started to give him a haircut the night before, but it had begun to rain so we had to quit. (I shear him on the balcony.)
Halfway through the haircut I popped up to put the meat thermometer in the pork loin (to test for doneness) and turn on the burner for the steamed green beans.
That completed I went back to shearing Henry.
I finished up Henry's back leg (he looks really, really odd now) and decided that was enough for one night. So I went to check the beans. Oddly enough, nothing was really happening. So I turned the burner down just a touch (something was smelling like it was burning, something on the burner maybe?) and sat down to read a few pages of my book.
Ten minutes later, the burnt smell was growing worse and worse. I went in the kitchen to analyze the situation and, to my great dismay, everything was going wrong at once.
"JOEY! I melted the thermometer!" I wailed.
It was most definitely melted; the screen was completely black and some strange green board and a bunch of wires were sticking out the side. It didn't look like I'd be able to use it again.
"No, not your favorite one?""YES! Maaaaaan, what am I going to do?" I had set it right next to the burner for the green beans and had forgot to move it when I turned the burner on. Such foolishness.
Then I noticed something was odd about the beans.
"I think I forgot to put water in the steamer for the beans." With that statement, Joey was off the couch and over at my side in a minute to survey the damage. And he was trying not to laugh.
"Yes, yes you did." The beans were really burned.
"What are we going to eat for dinner now? All we have is suspicious pork loin!" I dumped the beans into the trash, rather upset with myself.
"I guess we'll eat a lot of it." Joey said. He obviously thought this was funnier than it really was.
And, thus, I roasted my thermometer and baked my beans. Quite by accident.
I am now starting a Buy Jenna A New Thermometer fund, so if you want to contribute don't hesitate to let me know. Otherwise Joey says I'm grounded from thermometers for awhile until I learn my lesson. He's no fun at all.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
In Which I Am Forgetful And Intentionally Make A Cooking Faux-Pas
Last night I set the pork loin out to thaw. I must emphasize that I hate pork loin (in general) but as my husband likes it, I make it for him.
The stupid pork loin wasn't thawing as quickly as I wanted it to, so I threw it in the sink full of cold water in an attempt to thaw it early enough that I could brine it before I went to bed. I normally set a timer for that sort of thing, but I got distracted by giving myself a pedicure and other girly things like that and forgot entirely.
I awoke with a start at 5:40 a.m. and thought, "I never took the pork loin out of the sink last night, did I?"
Of course I didn't.
I figured if it had been in there all night another half an hour wasn't going to hurt it any more than it already was. So I went back to sleep until my alarm was supposed to go off at 6:15. (Which it didn't; I forgot to turn it on last night, too. I think something is wrong with me.)
Fortunately I woke myself up from a disturbing dream at 6:17 a.m. and was very relieved to get out of bed.
(To give you an idea of just how disturbing my dream was, it involved The Kid, his deceased hamster Steak, giant green worms crawling out of Steak's ears on to me, and me accidentally chopping Steak's head in half with my fingernail. Certifiably disturbing.)
After making the bed I wandered out into the kitchen, poked the pork loin roast in half-filled sink with my finger once or twice. Considering it had been sitting out for, um, 9 hours I decided that it was fairly cool still. Thus: safe to eat.
I prepared its brine, covered it and stuffed it in the refrigerator.
I told Joey what I had done and all he said was, "It's probably fine. I say we eat it."
Mom probably wouldn't feed something like that to her family. I'm beginning to feel guilty and altogether like I'm poisoning my husband by feeding him a creepy pork loin.
I'll let you all know if we throw up all night from food poisoning.
The stupid pork loin wasn't thawing as quickly as I wanted it to, so I threw it in the sink full of cold water in an attempt to thaw it early enough that I could brine it before I went to bed. I normally set a timer for that sort of thing, but I got distracted by giving myself a pedicure and other girly things like that and forgot entirely.
I awoke with a start at 5:40 a.m. and thought, "I never took the pork loin out of the sink last night, did I?"
Of course I didn't.
I figured if it had been in there all night another half an hour wasn't going to hurt it any more than it already was. So I went back to sleep until my alarm was supposed to go off at 6:15. (Which it didn't; I forgot to turn it on last night, too. I think something is wrong with me.)
Fortunately I woke myself up from a disturbing dream at 6:17 a.m. and was very relieved to get out of bed.
(To give you an idea of just how disturbing my dream was, it involved The Kid, his deceased hamster Steak, giant green worms crawling out of Steak's ears on to me, and me accidentally chopping Steak's head in half with my fingernail. Certifiably disturbing.)
After making the bed I wandered out into the kitchen, poked the pork loin roast in half-filled sink with my finger once or twice. Considering it had been sitting out for, um, 9 hours I decided that it was fairly cool still. Thus: safe to eat.
I prepared its brine, covered it and stuffed it in the refrigerator.
I told Joey what I had done and all he said was, "It's probably fine. I say we eat it."
Mom probably wouldn't feed something like that to her family. I'm beginning to feel guilty and altogether like I'm poisoning my husband by feeding him a creepy pork loin.
I'll let you all know if we throw up all night from food poisoning.
The Frosting Majesty
Anyone who knows much of anything at all about me knows that I really, really like frosting. A lot. (It is mainly for this reason that The Kid and I snitched cake early at Sister's wedding. We wanted to make sure we consumed the highest quantity of frosting possible.)
Joey and I went to the grocery on Saturday and, lo and behold, I spotted a cupcake with the most frosting I'd ever seen.
"JOEY!" I squealed, "COME OVER HERE!" I pointed wordlessly to the cupcake. The lady behind the counter looked at me like there was something wrong with me.
"Wow, that's a lot of frosting." Joey said. He wound up buying me the cupcake. I discussed its frosting merits for the rest of the grocery store. (He was probably regretting his decision by the time we got to the dairy case.)
We got home and took the cupcake out of its box. It sat on the counter in all its majesty and frostinged greatness.
"We HAVE to take some pictures. What can we use to use for scale? We don't have a ruler." I asked.
Joey pondered this. "A $100 bill?"
We determined that this was rather impractical.
"How about a $1 bill," I suggested.
Joey dug around in his wallet, actually found a $1 bill (cash is kind of a rare phenomenon in our house) and slapped George on the counter by the cupcake.
"OK, now hold it up next to it so it shows how high the frosting goes!" I giggled. (It was like I had a sugar high and I hadn't even eaten any frosting yet.)
Joey cut the cupcake in half. We were so amazed by the cross-section of frosting that we took another picture.
I happily munched the frosting off the top of my half of the cupcake slowly while Joey tried to figure out how to fit his entire half in his mouth at once. It wasn't working.
He finally cut half the frosting off the top (OY! A CRIME!) and managed to squeeze enough in his mouth to get a bite. Fortunately he did put the rest of the frosting on the sides of his cupcake (can't waste good frosting) and nothing was wasted.
And I had the sugar jibblies for the rest of the evening. Don't be sad, Mom.
Joey and I went to the grocery on Saturday and, lo and behold, I spotted a cupcake with the most frosting I'd ever seen.
"JOEY!" I squealed, "COME OVER HERE!" I pointed wordlessly to the cupcake. The lady behind the counter looked at me like there was something wrong with me.
"Wow, that's a lot of frosting." Joey said. He wound up buying me the cupcake. I discussed its frosting merits for the rest of the grocery store. (He was probably regretting his decision by the time we got to the dairy case.)
We got home and took the cupcake out of its box. It sat on the counter in all its majesty and frostinged greatness.
"We HAVE to take some pictures. What can we use to use for scale? We don't have a ruler." I asked.
Joey pondered this. "A $100 bill?"
We determined that this was rather impractical.
"How about a $1 bill," I suggested.
Joey dug around in his wallet, actually found a $1 bill (cash is kind of a rare phenomenon in our house) and slapped George on the counter by the cupcake.
"OK, now hold it up next to it so it shows how high the frosting goes!" I giggled. (It was like I had a sugar high and I hadn't even eaten any frosting yet.)
Joey cut the cupcake in half. We were so amazed by the cross-section of frosting that we took another picture.
I happily munched the frosting off the top of my half of the cupcake slowly while Joey tried to figure out how to fit his entire half in his mouth at once. It wasn't working.
He finally cut half the frosting off the top (OY! A CRIME!) and managed to squeeze enough in his mouth to get a bite. Fortunately he did put the rest of the frosting on the sides of his cupcake (can't waste good frosting) and nothing was wasted.And I had the sugar jibblies for the rest of the evening. Don't be sad, Mom.
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