A man and his dog

I drive 25 miles each way to work every day. My drive takes me along county roads where I see beautiful scenery, at least one eagle every morning, and a variety of people out walking.

There are 4 different people that I encounter regularly on my drive to work. There's Orange Hat Guy, Smiling Waving Woman, Really Happy Guy, and then there is Old Guy with Dog.

Orange Hat Guy is clearly out for some serious exercise because no matter what time of year, he's wearing his orange toque (stocking cap) and a heavy sweatshirt, and he swings his arms quite forcefully while he walks. Smiling Waving Woman really shouldn't need more explanation that that. She enjoys her morning walks, and waves to the cars that pass her by. Really Happy Guy waves so enthusiastically at me that I feel like I should know him, and then I feel bad because I don't recognize him. But I wave anyway.

Then there's Old Guy with Dog. I feel bad using the term "Old Guy" to describe him, because I honestly don't know how old he is. I estimate him to be in his 70's. He has an aging Rottweiler that he walks every morning. When I first moved across the county, the Rottweiler was far thinner and more spry on their walks. Now both dog and owner have slowed down a little.

In my mind I've created a whole backstory for this man. He's a lonely widower who lives alone with his dog. He's grown to be a somewhat crochety guy, but with a good heart. He's a lovable curmudgeon. His dog looks tougher than he really is, and the two of them go for their walks every morning while he enjoys the beauty of his surroundings, and maybe even talks to his dearly departed wife a little while he and (I've decided on a name for his dog) Rocky stroll along. He carries a piece of garden hose about 3' long, and it appears to have had something done to it to stiffen it, so it could be almost like a walking stick.

For years I've tried to get up the courage to smile and wave at Old Mr. Walker (as we'll call him) and Rocky as they get their daily exercise, but he doesn't seem to encourage this interaction.

Right around Thanksgiving, I noticed that Mr. Walker and Rocky had a companion walking along with them one morning. From a distance I noted another man walking alongside and thought, "How nice, his son came to visit him for Thanksgiving."

The next morning, however, as I approached they were walking towards me and I could see the face of the second man. I realized that he was in fact a younger man, at least 20 years younger than Mr. Walker. But he was of a completely different ethnic background than Mr. Walker, and even though I realize that he could be an adopted son, I just don't think he was. My mind immediately began re-writing Mr. Walker's story...

So then for the next few days as I would see them out walking, I'd try to come up with alternate scenarios... a sort of Tuesdays with Morrie thing because I didn't like the direction that my mind was taking Mr. Walker's story.

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, Mr. Walker's companion was gone again, and it was once again just a man and his dog out walking every morning.

Crazy stuff I think of...

I've been listening to Christmas music in the car lately, and occasionally a song will come on and I'll start singing along with it, and then I'll really think about the words.

One of these thought provoking songs is "Little Drummer Boy." It's one of my husband's favorite Christmas songs, and so I have about 7 different versions of it on my iPod. There are a couple of things that struck me as funny about this song when I really thought about the lyrics. First of all, has anyone else ever noticed that only Bing Crosby can pull off saying "ass" in a Christmas song and have it be ok? All other versions I've ever heard say, "The ox and lamb kept time," but in Bing's version it's "The ox and ass kept time." And secondly, I started thinking about playing a drum as a gift for a very newly born baby and his exhausted young mother.

Having never given birth myself, I cannot attest to this fact for sure, but I would imagine that right after having your child, the last thing that you would want would be someone banging on a drum. Poor Mary was probably thinking, "Great, I just got the kid to sleep, I was going to try to catch a quick nap, and this kid wants to play his drum for us?" Yet she had to smile and accept this gift graciously because really, what choice did she have?

So I'm thinking that next time one of my friends has a baby, instead of knitting something, or going to the store and buying a cute little outfit, I'll just go borrow my nephews bongos and play a ditty or two... could work...

Also, has anyone else ever actually counted up the gifts in "The Twelve Days of Christmas?" It's 364 gifts!!! (Correction: If you count the Pear Trees as a separate gift, then the total is a whopping 376 gifts!) I love my husband with all my heart, and he is my true love, but if he gave me: 12 Partridges in 12 Pear Trees, 22 Turtle Doves, 30 French Hens, 36 Calling Birds, 40 Gold Rings, 42 Geese a-laying, 42 Swans a-Swimming, 40 Maids a-Milking, 36 Ladies Dancing, 30 Lords a-Leaping, 22 Pipers Piping, and 12 Drummers Drumming, I'd have him locked up!!

First of all, does one person really need 30 Lords a-Leaping? Wouldn't a pair of them be enough? Then lets look at the birds... Now I'm terrified of birds, so even receiving one bird as a gift would be awful for me. But if you add up the birds in this song, there are 184 of them!! And 12 Pear Trees? I have 1 pear tree in my backyard, and if it hadn't been firmly established when we bought the house, I'm sure I'd have killed it by now.

In my family we already have 2 pipers and 2 drummers. I don't think I need any more than that. And I remember hearing how much those bagpipes cost, I can't even fathom paying for 22 of them!!

I guess the 40 Gold Rings wouldn't be so bad, except that I'd have to sell them to pay for the upkeep of all the blasted birds!

If this really was the person's true love, why did they feel the need to buy their love with so many gifts? It's kind of like Barbie... if she's so cool and popular, why do you have to buy her friends?

I blame it on "politically correct."

During the month of November so far, I've seen several of my Facebook friends posting something each day that they are thankful for. I wish I'd started that on the first of the month, but I didn't catch onto it for a couple of days, and then I was too lazy to get started on it.

Today I realized how incredibly thankful I am that I grew up when I did, and am not growing up today. I'm so glad that I grew up in a time when we stood up every morning and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I'm thankful that I was allowed to have Halloween parties at school, and that we could not only say "Merry Christmas" but we also had Christmas programs. I grew up in a time when we got a hug from the lunch lady, and it was one of the high points of our day.

When I was in middle school our lunch lady was told that she could no longer give those kids a hug. For some kids, this was the only affection they were shown each day. She ended up quitting her job because she wasn't willing to quit showing kindness to the children.

When I got to high school, the new thing was "Politically correct." I hated "politically correct" from the get-go. I think that it is directly responsible for so many things that have gone downhill since then.

Being politically correct made everyone a victim of some sort, it gave everyone a label. In an attempt to not stereotype or make people feel bad, it did the opposite. I went from being a short girl with bad eyesight to someone who was vertically and visually challenged.

Now, here's where I get even nerdier than I usually am... I'm going to include the Merriam Webster Dictionary's various definitions of the word challenge.
1. To demand as due or deserved
2. To order to halt and prove identity
3. To dispute especially as being unjust, invalid, or outmoded
4. To question formally the legality or legal qualifications of
5 a. To confront or defy boldly
b. To call out to duel or combat
c. To invite into competition

I have read through each of those definitions and I fail to see anywhere in any of them one that fits into the politically correct term of vertically or visually challenged. I view a challenge as something that you have the opportunity to accept. A challenge is something that you choose to meet head on, and deal with however you see fit.

Not one person ever said to me, "Do you wish to have terrible eyesight and deal with wearing corrective lenses for the rest of your life? Do you want to deal with headaches that come from eye strain when your prescription is too weak? Do you want to be faced with the choice to have an expensive corrective surgery to relieve you of the corrective lenses?" No, these choices were not presented to me. I simply have bad eyesight. I am not visually challenged.

I think that when everyone became so concerned with being politically correct, they also became so concerned with never offending the masses. Why is it that Christmas, a holiday celebrated by far more people than just Christians, is offensive to others? Why does no one seem to care if Christians, or non-Christian Christmas celebrating people are offended by the removal of Christmas from school concerts, and greetings.

Why can't kids have Halloween parties at school anymore? Because it's offensive to real witches. Why do witches have credibility as a religion and Christians don't. Why is it ok to offend Christians? We can't say Merry Christmas because it's offensive to non-Christians and no one cares, but Heaven forbid that we offend the witches.

I grew up being proud to be an American. I was proud to say the Pledge of Allegiance. I was proud to face the flag and put my hand over my heart and stand in silent reverence when the National Anthem was played. Now in today's school system, it is each teacher's individual choice to say the Pledge or not. Teachers are also using class time to teach the kids their own political preferences, and I think that's really wrong too. When did it become ok to tell kids how they should vote, if they were old enough to vote, but not ok to stand and salute our flag, the very symbol of our nation, and the freedoms on which we were formed. The very same freedoms which give those teachers the right to stand up in front of a classroom full of kids and teach them.

If a politician really wants to unite our country, if they want to make a campaign promise that this country would actually want to see fulfilled, no matter of which party endorses it, promise to end politically correct. Promise to bring common sense back, bring Christmas trees and celebrations back, promise to stop making mountains out of molehills. Get our country back to not being so blasted worried about offending anyone, and back to just being real people. Not neatly labeled people.

So even though it's nice up here, and I can see the top shelf, I'll step down from my soapbox now and go back to being a plain old short girl with bad eyesight.

I wonder what he'd think...

When we were on vacation, we had a 6 hour layover at the train station in Washington DC. Matt's priority was to make it to the World War II Memorial. It had been so important to his grandma that the Memorial be built, and WWII is such a huge part of his life and family history that it was really important to get there. I didn't realize it was so close to the Lincoln Monument, which is probably my favorite place in Washington DC.

We walked over to the Lincoln Monument, and I was truly struck by all the history that has happened on that spot that was built to honor one of our most famous Presidents. It was very sobering for me, and I had to wonder, "What would Abraham Lincoln think of this monument?" What would he think to see himself recreated in such a large and immortal marble figure? He was such a humble man, and even beyond humble, he had such a poor self image, that I think he would probably be mortified to see a monument in his honor.

I have some serious issues with the new Lincoln pennies too. At first I thought that the penny with him standing up in front of a building was him in front of his monument. I realize that that made me angrier than it should have, but I thought that it went against all that history teaches us about him to show him standing in front of his monument like, "Hi, I'm Abe, and this is my monument." I actually did some internet-searching research on this very subject and discovered that he's actually standing in front of the Illinois legislature building, not his monument. Still, it irks me a little because he's standing there, larger than life and gesturing like, "Hey check me out, I worked here."

I have less trouble with the one of him sitting on a log near his cabin because that one shows his humble roots, and more of the real Lincoln that I think he would like to be remembered for.

We got home from vacation and a couple days later I was getting ready for work, and when I went downstairs, the TV was on and (even though Matt was nowhere to be seen) Lucie was lying on the couch watching a documentary on, of all things, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. I was rather impressed with her viewing choices, and so I sat down next to her and was instantly drawn in. I rewound it as far as I could, and then set the DVR to record the remainder of the program.

Today I finally finished watching that program, and it got me thinking about my recent trip there, and how I might be projecting my own issues with his humility onto him more than he would, but still I wonder what he would think of the elevated position he holds in our history.

Who comes up with this stuff?

Lately I've been putting thought into commonly used phrases and their origins. I found myself saying, "You're pulling my leg," one afternoon, and then I went online to discover the actual origin of the phrase. As luck would have it, one of the front page stories on Yahoo that very day about that exact thing... Strange phrases and their origins.

I read it, but they didn't cover leg-pulling. So I searched it online. I know I found a few theories as to what the origin of that phrase was, but it apparently didn't leave a lasting impression on me, because I've completely forgotten it now.

I did start wondering about some other common phrases, and who determined them. For example, (and yes, sadly, this is one I spend A LOT of time thinking about) "Rat's A**". For the sake of my family friendly blog, we're going to simply refer to this as Rat's Bum from now on. Who determined that a rat's bum was the lowest form of universal currency in the world. When you can't even be bothered to "give a rat's bum" about something... that shows that it is REALLY far down. How do you suppose that was used for the first time? A bunch of people sitting around with excess rodent parts, and they determined that the rat's bum was worth the least of all other animals and their various parts? I think it would be a little more disturbing if you could give a rat's bum about something. Seriously? Where would you keep those? Would you have a box of rat bums? I can just imagine that somewhere out there is some sicko just waiting for the perfect opportunity for someone to say to him/her, "I couldn't give a rat's bum" and then they say, "Well, I could!" And out of the box comes the rat's bum.

And also, who decided that a horse's bum was equivalent to the worst class of people? As a devoted horse-person, I find that one kind of offensive. I actually made a friend apologize to a picture of Shadow once after referring to someone else that we know as a horse's bum. I said that was an insult to my horse and his bum. Why a horse? What makes a horse's bum worse than any other animals? Although, clearly it's still worth more than a rat's, it's still looked down upon in social circles.

Who decided that chickens were more cowardly than any other bird? Why do we call people "chicken?" I think that any bird who brazenly crosses the road regardless of speeding vehicles is not inherently cowardly. Stupid? Heck yes. Filthy? Absolutely! Delicious? Why yes, yes they are! But cowardly? I'm not so sure.

What the #&* happened to our @#$*&^$#@ Standards???

I watch a lot of TV. Probably too much TV, but I have my favorite shows that I watch, and I like to have background noise pretty much all the time because I don't like to be in too quiet of an environment. I wish that TV today was like it was when I was a kid.

I remember when people didn't swear on TV. The worst word you would hear would be the occasional "damn." People wore more clothes too. Humor was expressed without nudity and profanity. Drama was portrayed by actors actually acting, not graphically detailed violence, and bad language.

I remember being shocked the first time I heard the word "B*tch" on TV, and I knew, even back then, that it was just the beginning.

It makes me wonder why TV, and movies too for that matter, need to be so much more vulgar. Granted, I watch a lot of shows that maybe I shouldn't because of their subject matter, but I admit, I think they are funny. I think that "Two and a Half Men" is one of the funniest shows on television, but it's really a horrible show. It places no value on family values and glorifies a drunk who frequently hires prostitutes.

"Scrubs" was one of my favorite shows, but it always bothered me a bit how often they had Sarah Chalke stripped down to just a bra and underwear. I really don't think that was necessary to get the humor across to the audience.

I DESPISE the show "Family Guy," even though I have never watched a full episode of it. I steadfastly refuse to watch it after happening upon 5 minutes of one episode. The episode I stumbled upon was one where the writers of the show thought that it was funny to make a joke about September 11, 2001. It makes me ill to think that someone would think that is funny. And people just willingly accept that this is ok, its normal, its acceptable? I just can't do it.

Lately though the one that has bothered me the most is the new show on CBS with William Shatner. In the very title of the show a profanity is indicated. Why is that ok? Where did the standards go? How soon will network television completely morph into cable television and they won't even bother bleeping out the title?

Why is it that intelligently written shows that don't rely heavily on nudity, profanity, and sex fail, but you can find uneducated people fighting over who really fathered their babies on every single channel? There is always a new reality show cropping up that pushes the boundaries even further. People are constantly lowering their own standards to take part in these shows, or to watch them.

Why is it that my being bothered by these things makes ME a prude? It makes me close-minded, judgmental. I just don't understand that.

There's an old Sunday School song that says, "Be careful little eyes what you see/ears what you hear/tongue what you say..." and I think that we sing that as kids, and we sing that to kids, but we don't take it to heart. We don't protect ourselves from the things that are out there, we just accept that it is the new norm so it must be ok.

I guess that I'll just continue to be an old-fashioned prude. I'll watch the shows that I still deem watchable and if worst comes to worst, I'll pick up those old-fashioned inventions they have called books. I'll use my own imagination and create my own worlds inspired by the words of talented authors.

The Zucchini Incident of 1982

Warning: This blog post contains graphic descriptions of vomiting. If you are made queasy, or induced to vomit yourself by these kind of descriptions, proceed with caution.

While I was on vacation, I ate a piece of zucchini, willingly, for the first time since "The Incident." I was eating dinner in a restaurant called Teppan Edo in the Japan section of Epcot. I completely doused the piece of zucchini in ginger sauce to completely disguise any lingering taste of zucchini. I set forth to taste this quite hesitantly, and was relieved to not gag at all when I ate it. I realized that I still don't like zucchini at all. I don't like the texture of it, and I don't like the taste of it.

As far back as I can remember, I've never liked zucchini. In fact, I've hated it. My mother had a rule when we were kids, we had to eat our whole dinner. If we ordered something in a restaurant, we had to eat it whether we liked it or not. At home, we had to eat what she put on our plates, there was no alternative.

Another important thing to know to fully get this story is that I have an extremely low gag threshold. I can smell something cooking that I don't like and start to gag, and sometimes even just thinking about something that I don't like can make me gag.

Ok, now we go back in time to a night when I was about 6 or 7 years old. I'm guessing that this happened around 1982. We were at the table having dinner, it was porkchops and rice and zucchini. I also had a full glass of milk, in my Mr. Peabody glass. I ate my porkchop, I ate all my rice. I drank my full glass of milk. I did not, however, eat my zucchini. I was a very slow eater, and so by the time I finished a meal, it was cold. So, since I hadn't touched the zucchini yet, by this point it was STONE COLD. My mother told me to eat my zucchini. I told her that I didn't like zucchini and didn't want to eat it. She told me that I had to eat it anyway.

This went back and forth for a little while, and finally I was forced to take a bite. I remember this very clearly, and even the recollection is making me a little queasy. I put a bite of cold, slimy, squishy zucchini in my mouth, and chewed and even as I tried to swallow it, I could feel myself gagging. I remember making that awful, "Hul-huh, hul-huh" noise that people make when they gag. (It's a lot easier to verbally recreate that noise than to type it!) My mother, very used to this trick of mine, snapped at me, "Don't you do it. DON'T you DO it!!!!" I honestly did try to swallow the zucchini and stop the gagging, but I had no control over it.

I clapped both my hands over my mouth, and stood up from the table and started running around the island-like counter in our kitchen to get to the sink. Sadly, I was not fast enough and I started throwing up. Violently. My two little hands were not enough to hold it back, and it sprayed out between my fingers all the way from the table to the sink. The cabinets were splashed, the carpet was doused, and I made it to the sink where I heaved and retched for another 20 minutes.

My mother was never able to be around anyone else throwing up without getting sick herself. So this grandiose display of projectile vomit by me made my mother sick. My sister let out a nervous giggle, and my mother snapped at her, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP AND CLEAN IT UP!!!!" Then Mom sprinted out of the roomed towards her bathroom, and she did not emerge for quite some time.

My poor sister was forced to clean up the mess that I had made all over the kitchen, and I can't remember where my father went. I don't think that he offered to help Kimberly, I think he went to check on Mom, and never came back.

But an important lesson was learned by all involved that night... When Stephanie says, "I don't like that, I don't want to eat it," we probably shouldn't force the issue.

I've never eaten zucchini again since that night, except in its only acceptable form which is zucchini bread. So the very fact that I was willing to try it again at Teppan Edo was nothing short of incredible. I also reaffirmed my belief that zucchini is still awful, and should only be used to make zucchini bread.

Life lessons learned on vacation…

I learned several new life lessons while on vacation, and I thought I would share a few with you.

Lesson number one...It is simply amazing how much you can learn by just watching other people. For example, at dinner on the train one night, we were seated with another couple who were approximately our age, and at first it seemed like they would be decent dinner companions. However, it was astonishing to see the Jeckyll and Hyde personality that this guy possessed. He was very nice to us, asking about our vacation plans, and sharing stories of their trips to DisneyWorld; but he treated his wife with something that definitely fell short of respect. Then our waitress came, and suddenly the way he treated his wife looked like the epitome of love and respect, and yet he was still perfectly pleasant and polite to us.

It made me realize that he must think himself above the woman working as a waitress for Amtrak. He didn't feel that she was to be valued as a person equal to him, and yet we felt that our waitress was the superior human being in that particular race.

Lesson number two... Just because some manufacturer is crazy enough to make articles of clothing in all sizes DOES NOT mean that you should wear it!!! I could not believe the number of tube tops, and tube top dresses I saw in Florida on women of ALL ages and sizes. First of all, who wears a sundress to a theme park where they will be getting on and off rides and in and out of all different types of vehicles??? And I'm sorry, but I think that if you are so morbidly obese that you must rent a scooter to drive yourself around DisneyWorld because you are not capable of walking, you DEFINITELY should NOT be wearing a tube top. Maybe this makes me a horribly mean person, but that's how I feel about it.

Lesson number three... If you want to raise your children to be decent human beings who do the right thing and treat others with respect, you have to do it too! Don't berate a college student who is working at a theme park on weekends over something that they cannot control. Universal Studios offers free locker rentals while you ride certain rides because no loose articles are allowed. The free rental period is determined by the current wait time for that attraction. After the free period has elapsed, there is a $3 fee for the next 30 minutes. The lockers are run on a computer controlled timeclock that tracks the renters biometrically. You rent, and release the locker by pressing your finger on a biometric scanner.

We rented our locker and went on the Harry Potter Dragon Challenge ride. The line moved very quickly and so we decided to go again. I wondered if we should change lockers so we didn't exceed our free rental period, but we decided that we'd just pay the $3 if we went over. We got back to the locker, and as I had suspected, we owed $3. The only problem was that our money was in the locker, so I had to find the locker attendant to release the locker so we could get the money to pay. I went and got in line behind the ONE person that she was helping and waited. Suddenly 3 women came over and butted in front of me angrily demanding that she open their lockers and waive the fees because they hadn't been gone more than 30 minutes.

I opened my mouth to explain that I was actually next in line, but was pretty much pushed out of the way by the angry crowd moving back to their lockers. We stood, patiently waiting our turn (AGAIN), while the poor girl opened one locker, and after verifying the lady's ID was able to release the locker without extra payment. I'm not sure how that worked, but apparently the computer decided that she didn't owe after all. I started to move forward again to get the attendant to help me when another lady in that party, who I've decided to name Nasty B Yotch, started demanding (and I am not exaggerating her behavior at all, in fact she comes off better in my description than she actually was) that her locker be opened. The girl told Nasty B. Yotch that she owed $3. This set Mrs. Yotch off on a tirade about how she was in line at the same time as the other woman, they opened their lockers at the EXACTLY the same time, rode the ride togethers, and SHE didn't have to pay. The poor girl was trying to explain that she doesn't actually have any control over how the time clock works. Mrs. Yotch became even angrier and her husband chimed in, repeating everything his wife had just said, sounding like an ignorant broken record.

The Locker Attendant calmly and patiently repeated that they owed $3. Then Mrs. Yotch's daughter, Snotty B Yotch piped up, and I was so overwhelmed by her tone that I had to step back and bit my tongue so I didn't get involved. Snotty very sarcastically informed the attendant that she needed to open up the locker so her mother could get her money out to pay. So the attendant opened their locker, and Nasty B Yotch grabbed her stuff, and went to swipe her card. However, the fingerprint scanner didn't recognize her finger on the first try, and the whole family stormed out, refusing to pay $3, and loudly congratulating themselves on their triumph over the stupid girl who was trying to rip them off.

I then stopped three other people from cutting me off in line again by loudly saying, "ACTUALLY, I was next!" I finally got the girl's attention and told her, "We'll GLADLY pay the $3, but our money is locked in our locker." She opened it up for us, I retrieved my items, paid the locker fee, and left apologizing on behalf of Nasty B Yotch and her whole family and we offered to vouch for her if that family complained about her to the management.

I couldn't believe that $3 became such an issue. Really?? $3 is worth lowering yourself to the lowest class of human and treating others like garbage? I guess now we know that the price of decency is not to exceed $2.99.

Long time, no post...

So I realized last night that I didn't post anything in September... well I've been making notes in a big notebook that I packed with me on vacation, and now I'm ready to start blogging again... I'm sure that I will soon be inundating you with vacation stories and whatnot, but here's one that made me giggle on my last day of vacation...

So all over Epcot, the trash cans were labelled just like that. "Waste Please." The thought popped into my head, as thoughts so often do, "Aren't we supposed to reduce, reuse, and recycle? Why is this trash can asking me to Waste?" I thought that it was very wrong of this trash can to ask me to waste, however politely it asked. However, never one to resist peer pressure, I stopped eating my breakfast and obediently threw half of it away.

Ok, so the breakfast panini wasn't as good as it looked, and I was kind of glad to be rid of it, but still... I felt that the amount of control this trash can was exerting over me was scary!

The Great Roll Under Conspiracy...

It occurred to me today that I tend to let little things bother me more than they should. I don't think that I'm alone in this, but I'm going to take steps to not sweat the small stuff anymore.

The major issue that was on my mind today was toilet paper. I think it's funny how something as dumb as whether the toilet paper goes over or under can become a "This is the hill I'm prepared to die on" issue. My former boss told me that the first fight he and his wife had after they got married was on this very same issue. (He was right, she was wrong.)

Now clearly the correct way to put a roll of toilet paper on the holder is to position it so that it rolls over. I'm not sure in what alternate universe rolling under would be the correct method, but I'm glad I live in this one. Do people teach their dogs to "roll under?" Does the annoying childrens' song say "There were 10 in the bed and the little one said, 'Roll under?'" I rest my case.

Try to argue with my logic... you can't because you can't argue with a crazy person... you never win.

I first became aware of the Great Roll Under Conspiracy a few months ago at work. I don't know who is behind it, but there is a dark force at work in my store and they are trying to make me crazier than I already am. For the last 12 and a half years, the toilet paper and paper towels have been put on their respective holders correctly. Lately I have discovered, with increasing frequency, that the paper towels are on the holder in the "roll under" position. Of course I immediately switch them. I'll go into the Ladies' Room and find that a new roll of toilet paper is on the holder, and yes you guessed it, it's rolling under.

If I were a stronger person, I could just walk away from this, but sadly I'm not. I am so compulsive about this that I will change it in restrooms at restaurants. I have to force myself to not change it in other peoples' homes. I do find it amusing that it's easier for me to accept someone's choice to embrace a religion or lifestyle different than mine than I do to accept their decision to roll their toilet paper under.

Veni, Viti, Vacuum... I came, I saw, I Hoovered!

I know that I was born possessing certain gifts that God saw fit to give to me, but housekeeping skills were not ones that He in his infinite wisdom saw fit to bless me with. All my life I've been terrible at keeping things clean. My mother gave my toys away to my preschool and the toy box at my father's store because I wouldn't clean them up. Watching those grubby little children play with my toys was awful and still I didn't learn to be a better cleaner. I tried for a little while, but soon fell back into old habits of stuffing things in drawers and into my closet.

My parents were very wise and got me a waterbed as soon as I was out of a crib. A waterbed's frame is solid, there is no hiding stuff underneath it. So while all my friends got to shove stuff under their beds instead of truly cleaning, I had to find more creative places to hide my things, instead of just cleaning them up properly.

Now that I have a home of my own, and its up to me to be the one to keep it clean, I realize why my mother used to work so hard at getting my sister and I to do chores. It's a lot of work, and it seems like there are forces working against me to get it done.

One day while I was cleaning, I started imagining the participants in this battle. I think that the main players are Major Pigsty, Lieutenant Lazy Butt, and Corporal Comfy Couch. Major Pigsty is a sneaky devil... he must be in some black ops division of the military. Domestic Destruction Detachment?

I know that the DDD must be working against me because it is simply not possible that 2 people and 1 dog could create this much of a mess. So the best that I can figure is that Major Pigsty sneaks in when I am not home and creates havoc. He commands his detachment to come in and dirty the dishes and leave them laying around after I have cleaned the whole kitchen.

Major Pigsty does not work alone, he recruited Lieutenant Lazy Butt to do his dirty work. Lt. Lazy Butt sneaks into my psyche and tells me things like, "You don't really need to vacuum right now, just turn on the TV for a little while," or "Washing the laundry is the biggest part of the battle, you don't really need to fold it and put it away." And Lt. Lazy Butt is so conniving yet convincing that I find myself on the couch with the computer in my lap and watching my dvr'd episodes of Days of Our Lives.

Lt. Lazy Butt is aided Corporal Comfy Couch. While this may not seem like a dangerous pairing to other motivated people, to me they are a truly terrifying duo. Corporal Couch is a silent partner in this operation, and he works much like a Venus Fly Trap. He sits there looking all comfy and alluring but then as soon as you sit down you are good and truly stuck for at least a little while.

Now picture, if you will, poor beleaguered me fighting against this insidious force of darkness all by myself. To keep this on a slightly even scale, I guess I'll have to give myself a military rank too. I think that I am probably PFC Horrible Housewife. I come onto the field of battle and I survey the wreckage and have to fight the urge to simply wave a white flag of surrender to the DDD. I look around for reinforcements, but find myself standing alone. So, usually I allow myself to be taken as a POW and simply held captive by Corporal Couch while the DDD does their worst.

Occasionally though I find the strength and courage to fight back. Today was one of those days. I decided to take decisive action against these evil geniuses and hit them hard. I formulated a plan and armed with bleach and hot water I headed for my bathroom. I gathered up the bathmats and shower curtain and threw them viciously into the washing machine. I took the shower curtain liner and soaked it in the aforementioned hot water and bleach. Then I went back downstairs and picked up my frenemy Zappy the Vacuum and I went after Big Blue. This was where things got a little scary. It had been awhile since Zappy and Big Blue had met, but I persevered and after a few moments I had triumphed. So, riding high on the small victory, I moved onto the TV room and put Zappy to work in there too.

Then I decided that the bathroom hadn't seen the last of me, so I went in armed with my trusty can of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles Bathroom cleaner. I thought that I had finally found my reinforcements. If you watch the commercials you see that the bubbles come zooming out of the can, and while triumphant music encourages them on, they whizz around the shower scrubbing their little hearts out. However, much to my dismay, the commercials are a BIG FAT LIE!!! They didn't come zooming out ready to do battle. In fact, the cowardly little buggers were reluctant to leave the can. They clung to the nozzle, gathering into a big foamy glop that ran down the can and all over my hand. Perhaps they were scared to go into the battlefield that was my shower, but that's no excuse. I finally forced them to live up to their responsibilities and rush headlong into the fray and start working. It appears their hearts weren't really in their work, so I helped them out with a scrub brush, and stepped back a few minutes later feeling very satisfied with the crushing defeat the DDD had suffered at my hands.

My spirits lifted by this accomplishment, I hung the shower curtain liner back up to dry, and then grabbed my trusty Oreck vacuum (That DOESN'T delight in giving me electric shocks) and vacuumed the upstairs. Not to be stopped now that I was truly on a roll, I stripped the bed and came down and started another load of laundry.

Now I am happily ensconced on Corporal Comfy Couch documenting my partial victory over Major Pigsty. I realize that this was merely a tiny little skirmish in an ongoing war of epic proportions, but I'm going to revel in it anyway.

Zoom, Zoom, Zoom....

I had a thought pop into my head tonight, and it almost prompted a new facebook status, but I realized, sadly, that only my sister would understand it. Then I started to dissect my thought in my head, and before I knew it, a blog post was half written.

So, as I have said before, my train of thought is like a bullet train. It moves so fast that I can hardly keep up with it. My thoughts tonight ranged from how wonderful a non-stick rice cooker pan is, to what was the greatest thing before sliced bread, to an impromptu comedy routine that I came up with more than 10 years ago to cheer up my sister.

Let's back up and explain the comedy routine so that I can expound upon the sliced bread thing, and end up at the rice cooker.

One night, as I recall it was a blustery fall evening, my sister and I were driving to Bellingham. She lived in an apartment down near Samish Way back then, and I was driving her home. I can't believe that I recall this conversation so clearly, but (And I'm sure you'll all be so glad that I do recall this so clearly) we were talking about our periods, and different feminine hygiene products. (Told you you'd be thrilled.) I remember advising my sister to get herself a box of panty liners because they were such useful little items. She'd been feeling down in the days prior to that, and I still don't know where this came from, but I launched into an impromptu comedy routine all about panty liners. Of course, to understand why this is even remotely funny I must explain that I was using my southern accent that was inspired by Vicki Lawrence's "Mama's Family" character, Thelma. I put on this accent (for the first time ever) and started talking all about how useful panty liners were. I pronounced it "Panna-lah-ner." It's one word. And I kept saying how "They're the greatest thing since thet there Wal-Mart!" For the entire half hour drive, I entertained my sister with my Pannalahner routine and had her thoroughly cheered up when I delivered her to her door.

From that point on, I stopped referring to things as "The greatest thing since sliced bread" and started using "The greatest thing since thet there Wal-Mart" instead. Occasionally I would use the phrase "The greatest thing since peanut butter."

I have often found myself wondering "What was the greatest thing before sliced bread?" And really, is sliced bread SUCH an amazing advancement of society that we must compare everything to it? Who was the first person to slice bread? Were they Sainted for their contributions to mankind? What are they the Patron Saint of?

Moving right along... I have always been terrible at cooking rice. I cannot cook rice on the stove top. I don't know why. I am a fairly decent cook, and am actually good at preparing certain foods, but I am not capable of cooking rice on the stove top. When I opened my brand new Rice Cooker at my bridal shower, I was SO excited! Finally, I was going to be able to cook rice and have it actually turn out like its supposed to.

Now we arrive in my kitchen on a night in the not so distant past. I was using my beloved rice cooker, and when I went to lift the pan out of the cooker, it would not come out. I was puzzled. Then I smelled a funny burnt plasticky smell, almost like melted crayons. I finally managed to pry the pan out and discovered that a label of some sort had managed to make its way onto the element and burn, effectively glueing the pan to the element. I was heartbroken.

I decided to buy myself a new rice cooker for my birthday, and when it arrived, I discovered, to my delight that it had a non-stick pan instead of the regular full-stick pan that my old one had. This might not seem like such a big deal, but to someone who is so terrible at making rice, anything that makes it easier is a HUGE deal.

So, as I was preparing dinner tonight, I thought about posting a facebook status of "Stephanie Munden thinks that non-stick rice cooker pans are the greatest thing since thet there Wal-Mart!!!" Then I laughed at myself and realized that no one would understand that except for my sister, and possibly my mother, but they are never on facebook, so it would be a waste of a (In my humble opinion) clever joke.

It took me all of about 2.3 seconds to make my way from, "Wow, this non-stick thing is great" to Pannalahners and what came before sliced bread.

Good thing these train seats have motion-sickness bags, huh?

We need a sedative and a giant net on aisle 7 please...

Last night I decided that I wanted to try a new recipe for dinner and I needed a couple of items to be able to make my Waikiki Meatballs. (SUPER YUMMY by the by) While I was at Safeway I remembered that I needed some more Instant Vanilla pudding mix so that I could make more Twinkies.

I wandered around the store collecting this and that, and I arrived at the pudding mixes and began my search for Instant Vanilla pudding mix. I immediately found the small boxes of instant vanilla, and began looking for the bigger boxes that I needed. I was stumped because all I could find was big boxes of Cook-N-Serve... (As I'm typing this I realize that this is the most ridiculous blog ever, and I apologize to anyone who is actually reading this, but it gets better, well... crazier) and so I kept searching for my instant pudding. I found the big boxes of instant chocolate, but then right next to it was Cook-N-Serve Chocolate and then Cook-N-Serve Vanilla. At this point, I realized that I was not seeing double, but that the Cook-N-Serve Vanilla was in two spots on the shelf. I, being the neurotic person that I am, start checking the shelf tags to see where the Instant Vanilla is supposed to be located. I find the correct tag, and start removing box after box of Cook-N-Serve and finally located some Instant behind it. At first, I was putting the Cook-N-Serve where it actually belonged, but the shelf was pretty full. So then I started putting them in my cart, so that I could go find someone who works there and explain what happened.

As if this wasn't crazy enough, I turned my attention to the chocolate pudding, found the same problem, so of course I pulled all the wrong puddings from that spot too. Then I faced the shelves for them so that anyone looking for the instant pudding (Wow! I'm turning into Binocular Lady, I'm sure that anyone who is still reading this is thinking "Say Instant Pudding ONE MORE TIME!!!") and I set off with my cart ridiculously full of Cook-N-Serve Puddings and my measly 3 boxes of Instant Pudding that I needed. I went in search of a Safeway employee that I could give them the boxes and finish my shopping. I found a guy with a Telxon in his hand (The electronic thingy that scans the barcodes on the shelf tags, and is used for ordering and inventory) and I went up to him and saw that his name tag said "Supervisor." I said, "You look like someone who can help me." I explained about the puddings, and how I was going to get a basket to put them in because I didn't actually want them, but I didn't want another customer to not find what they were looking for. He looked at me like I had 3 heads. I went and got a basket and transferred all the unwanted boxes of pudding into it so that I could give them to Mr. Supervisor.

Apparently he spooks easily, and he disappeared, so instead I had to tell my story to yet another person, the nice little girl at the checkout. I handed her the basket of pudding, and had to begin with, "Ok, I'm not totally insane..." (Because I'm sure that was reassuring to her.) I explained what was going on, and then told her that I am the inventory manager at my store, and that's what I do, and so I wanted to help them avoid frustration and confusion. She was very nice and thanked me, and after discovering that we know some of the same people, I got my receipt and left. I ran into Mr. Supervisor (who isn't very good at hiding) and told him that the nice checker had the basket of pudding, and then explained again that because of what I do at work, that's why I had fixed the pudding for them.

I left there thinking, "Well that's just fantastic, now I have to find a new grocery store, and I really like Safeway."

Move over Timothy Leary, you've got nothin' on me!

I've had my fair share of strange dreams in my lifetime. I have some that I wake up and I'm scratching my head, saying, "Huh? I have NO clue where that one came from." Last night was one of those nights. I had a series of dreams, because I kept waking up, listening to see if Matt was home, looking at the clock, and falling asleep again. These dreams were not really tied together by any normal sense of logic known to man, but to me, they wove seamlessly together.

I should preface this by saying, I had only non-alcoholic drinks at dinner last night, and I did not take any sleep aid, either over the counter, or prescription. This is purely a product of my sub-conscious.

Let's begin with me arriving home, to discover that we were out of something, and so we went to the grocery store, which was closed. For some reason the manager opened the store for us, and I was stocking up on meats to freeze, because apparently there was a smokin' deal on meats at 12:30 at night in a closed grocery store. I got up to the till and found that my husband had picked out some new shirts for me, because that's where everyone buys their new clothes, right? (They were pretty cute though.)

I left there, and got into my truck and drove to a nearby luge track (of course) where Apollo Ohno was teaching people how to ski, (yes - ski, not skate) down a luge track. It was pretty fun, but Apollo was bossy and I got kind of annoyed with him, and decided that I wasn't going to race him after all.

My friend Robbie was there, and she asked me if I would mind hauling her horses home. (Because everyone brings their horses to the luge track to learn how to ski down it, right?) I said, "Sure, no problem." I've never hauled a trailer before, but in dream world little details like that don't really matter. So I hooked the trailer up to our truck and started towards her house. At this point it must be about 2:00 am. I go past our store and see that the gates are open, and all the lights are on. I stop to check it out, and discover that my sister is throwing a huge party in our store in the middle of the night, and people are leaving the adjoining movie theater (didn't y'all know that our store has a movie theater attached to it?) and coming in and joining the party, and then some of them wanted to shop. I went to start turning out lights, trying to get people to leave, and was turning out the lights in the locker-room style bathrooms that we now have, (with hospital curtain dividers instead of metal dividers) and discovered some creeper lurking in the corner. I yelled at him to leave, and at this point I was getting angry, I really wanted all these people out of my store.

I started yelling at my sister to get rid of all the people when the phone began to ring. Stupidly I answered it. Next thing I know, I'm completely overrun with customers at 3:00 am, and then my father is standing next to me, asking me how to run a second batch of credit cards, because the normal business day's batch had run before my sister started this Midnight Madness-esque sale we were now having, and he didn't want that to interfere with the next day's sales. I tried to explain to him that I don't know how to do that stuff, that it's his job, but he got cranky with me and left.

Next thing I know, it's daylight out, and I think around 1:00 in the afternoon, and I'm still trying to get these horses home. So now I'm driving the truck and trailer towards Robbie's house again, and my sister (who was stone cold sober during her party) is in the backseat, and she's drunk and keeps asking me where we're going, and basically just won't be quiet. Also in the backseat, and I have no idea how she got there, is Robbie's daughter Annika. Annie wasn't at the luge track with us, and she certainly wasn't at Kimberly's party... so I haven't figured that part out yet. I was almost to Robbie's house and slowing down so I wouldn't miss the driveway, and I got distracted by Robbie's pretty new fence across the front of her property with these beautiful arbors over each driveway. The arbors were covered with these gorgeous pink climbing flowers of some sort, and I was so enthralled with them, that I missed the first driveway, and Annika started yelling at me that I missed it. I told her that I would just turn into the second driveway, but she started reenacting the famous "You're doing it wrong" scene from Mr. Mom and I decided that I'd better back up and turn in the first driveway after all. As soon as I started making my turn, and telling Kimberly to stop talking because she was distracting me, the sound of our front door closing woke me up.

So I guess we'll never know if I made the turn ok or not. Also we'll never know if I actually went home and put all that meat in a freezer, or just left it in the truck during my ski-luge lessons, and mid-night customer service session.

Maybe if I ever get my own time machine, I can go back in time and ask Dr. Freud what he makes of this one, but alas, I don't see myself getting a time machine, because as I recently read, there's no future in time travel.

Is there a Short Bus to Makeup School?

I went out to dinner tonight for my friend's birthday, and I told her that I was even going to wear makeup for her. So I got home from work and started getting cleaned up. After my shower, I decided that there wasn't time to do hair and makeup so I was going to have to have my "anything goes" hair, where I just let it dry on its own and hope for the best.

I pulled out my makeup bag, which contains all sorts of things that really should be easy to use, but honestly, they defeat me on a regular basis. Much like dogs are supposed to just know how to swim naturally, I think that it's assumed that girls' will naturally know how to apply makeup. If that's the case, I suck at being a girl. I start trying to put the stuff on, and my hands start shaking like I'm going through DT's. When I'm finished, it looks like I was attacked by a wild eye-liner. I have to take a Q-tip and use it like an eraser. Maybe the fact that I was never good at coloring inside the lines has something to do with all of this.

So I got the eye-liner somewhat tamed and down to a normal level, and switched to eye-shadow. Once again, Bobo the blind, drunk, lab monkey takes over, and I've got glittery smudges all over my nose, my eyelids, under my eyes, and, even a little on my cheekbones. I'm still not sure how that happened. Once again, the trusty Q-tip came to my rescue, and I managed to remove stray smudges, and then used a tool meant to smudge and blur stuff, and got the rest of the mess smudged into some semblance of normal makeup, almost like I knew what I was doing.

Maybe I could call up Mr. Clean and have him make me a Makeup Magic Eraser? I don't understand how some people actually do this every single day? I just don't have that kind of time... or that many Q-tips. (And I buy them at Costco by the hundreds!!!)

Maybe next time I'll just promise to have pretty hair. Might be easier, and safer for all involved.

An Owie in the Armpit

From Lucie's point of view...

I went to work on Wednesday, which is unusual for me. Even though I don't usually deal with change very well, this was a nice surprise because I got to play with my sister, Josie all day long. Towards the end of the day, my Mom noticed that I had an owie in my "underpit." I could have told her that much earlier if she'd bothered to ask. Anyway, she saw that it was kind of raw and oozy and gross looking. I tried to tell her that I would just keep licking at it, or at least as close to it as I could reach, and it would be fine. She didn't listen.

We drove home, and she refused to let me stick my head out the roof of the car because she said we were going too fast and that it could be dangerous for me, blah blah blah. So I pouted in the backseat and ignored her. Then when we go home, she immediately told my Dad that I had an owie, and he wanted to see it. Then he decided that we had to do something about it. I heard my Mom say something about a bath, which was when I decided that I needed to follow Dad out into the backyard, and quickly! I thought I'd escaped that most terrible of fates when Mom started cleaning the kitchen and scrubbing countertops. Then, when I thought I'd be able to make it through the night without her remembering her awful threat, she turned to me and said those words I dread the most, "Bath time Pup!"

I went and climbed into the tub where Mom began to spray me with the hose, which isn't so bad, and then she put that stinky stuff on me and started scrubbing. Every single time I get myself smelling really pretty, she shoves me in the tub and makes me stinky again! I could tell that she felt bad about this bath though and was being really careful with my owie. She kept apologizing to me, and then she finally let me out of the tub and dried me off with the towel, which I kind of like too.

I thought the worst was over, but then Dad asked her where the medicine was, and he started poking and prodding at my owie and spreading sticky goopy stuff on it and telling me that it was for my own good. But then he said the most wonderful words, he said to Mom, "I guess you'd better take her to the doctor tomorrow." At this point, I was beside myself I was so happy! But I had to play it cool because I was still really ticked off at my parents for the bath and the medicine.

Mom went to bed that night, and tried to coax me up to their room with her. I ignored her for awhile and then decided that I'd go lay on my bed with my back to her, letting her know exactly what I thought of her. Apparently my silent treatment worked because she felt really bad and told me I could get up on the bed with her. At this point I had to decide which I wanted more, to punish Mom, or to sleep on their comfy bed. So I compromised, I got up on their bed, and turned my back to her and slept down by her feet ignoring her.

Yesterday when we got up, Mom immediately started poking and prodding at my owie again, and determined that while it looked better, I should probably still see my doctor. I was still mad at her from the night before so I just played it cool. She called and made an appointment and when she hung up she told me that Dr. Erickson was available to see me that afternoon. I love Dr. Erickson. He's my favorite person at the Dr's office. I decided that since she was willing to take me in for a date appointment with Dr. Erickson, I'd better start being nice to her again.

Time passed pretty slowly until she finally said we could go. I jumped in the car and we were on our way. When we pulled into the parking lot, I could barely contain my excitement. She clipped my leash on me and we went inside. I politely jumped up and put my paws on the counter to let the nice girl behind the desk know I was there. Then I started tugging on Mom's hand trying to take her to the backroom, that's where all the fun stuff happens. The girl behind the desk said we could go to the exam room. I tried to take Mom past that boring little room and back to where I knew that Dr. Erickson hangs out, but she wouldn't let me.

Instead I was trapped in a little room with only my boring old Mom. I could hear someone in the back, who I didn't know, but I'm sure we'd be best friends, and he was barking and howling, and I kept trying to tell Mom that I should go back there and hang out, but she told me to hush up and lie down. Finally the moment I'd been waiting for came, and Dr. Erickson came in. I was so excited, I ran over to greet him and he gave me a cookie, and all was right with the world. And then he wanted to look at the owie in my armpit. I was a little sad that he didn't just want to visit. He started poking and prodding at my owie, and then he found another owie that I'd managed to keep hidden from Mom and Dad, and when he poked that one, I'd had enough! I jumped up, grabbed Mom's hand and took her to the door. Unfortunately she didn't think that it was time to go yet and wanted to hear more of what Dr. Erickson was saying.

Then he started to move towards the door of the backroom, where all the fun stuff happens, so I let go of Mom and rushed back to him. He tried to tell me that I didn't really need to go to the backroom, but I stared him down, and he agreed that I could at least go back and get a cookie with him. He took me to the magical backroom of wonders where I rushed around greeting all my old friends, even the ones I'd never met before. Then he made me go back to my stupid old Mom. We waited in that little room for another few minutes, which felt like hours to me, and then he came back and brought my medicines. I wasn't excited about having to take more pills, since Mom opens my mouth and crams them down my throat, but then Dr. Erickson said I could have my pills in toasted marshmallows, which happen to be one of my very favorite things in the world!

So all in all, it was a pretty good day.

Garden Wars Episode III... The Demise of the Weeds

You know what they say about good intentions and where they lead you... I've had the best of intentions for the last few weeks to finish that blasted garden. My intentions have not however given me the needed inspiration to go and accomplish that.

Today I was looking at plants out in the garden center at work and I decided that nothing would inspire me to finish like having the plants right there sitting next to the garden. So I picked out my tomatoes and herbs, and then Nancy gave me some other starts, zucchini, cucumbers, and delicata squash.

I mentally mapped out a timeline for how it was going to play out when I got home this afternoon. My plan was to get home, change into grubbies, and hit the garden hard. I figured I'd need 2 hours to finish pulling the 1'x2' section of weeds that was left, and then to turn it all over, break it up, and get it ready to plant.

The best laid plans, huh? I got home, and received a message from my sister that completely sidetracked me. So I got stuck on the computer for a few minutes trying to find a new phone for Matt since his is broken, and then I had to boot myself out of the chair before I settled in to an evening of playing games. I changed and gathered up my gloves and tools and headed out there.

I arrived at the garden, and saw to my dismay that my alleged 2 square feet of weeds was actually more like 9 or 10 square feet. I started yanking weeds, digging with the shovel, and hauling them by clumps to my wheelbarrow. (Interesting side note: If you fill a wheelbarrow with weeds and let it sit for 2-3 weeks getting rained on, when you dump it out, it will smell REALLY bad! And the smell will not fade quickly.) I emptied my wheelbarrow and went right back to work getting those insidious weeds out of there.

I made pretty decent time removing the weeds and then started moving on. I picked up my shovel and began turning the dirt over in big clumps. When I was about halfway through turning the garden over a thought occurred to me. "I'm going to have to break these big clumps up somehow." At this point, I started seriously considering hopping in the truck, driving back to Blaine, and getting a tiller from the store. I finished turning the ground over, and then surveyed my arsenal of gardening tools. My eyes landed upon our trusty hoe and I grabbed it. I began taking out all my aggressions of late on these clumps of dirt.

Actually Obnoxious Binocular Lady should be given credit for about a quarter of my garden. I just kept recalling things that ticked me off and put them into each swing of the hoe. By the time I was 2/3 of the way through the garden, my hoe was broken. I went to the shed and looked to see if we had another one, but we didn't. I did find a digging bar.

Again, I must digress a bit... my eyesight is truly truly terrible without corrective lenses. However, and I didn't need my eye doctor to confirm this diagnosis, my hindsight is 20/20!

Ok, back to my garden... I took the 6' digging bar out to the garden and decided to break up the clumps with that. It's a very effective tool at breaking up ground, but if you have 2 bad shoulders, you might want to use a different tool to break up giant clumps of dirt. After about 3 clumps my shoulders were protesting loudly and calling me names not fit to repeat. I decided that perhaps stopping to put the head of the hoe back into the handle every couple minutes wasn't so inconvenient after all.

I finished hoeing the ground and looked at it again. There were still small clumps everywhere. I was starting to get a little discouraged and I looked once again to my tools. I picked up the Garden Weasel and told it that it was my only hope. I started Garden Weaseling the area, and found to my delight that it's a wonderful tool and it broke up the little clumps and had the previously hard-packed weed-infested ground looking like a tilled garden with reasonably little effort.

I then grabbed my rake and gave the whole garden a once-over to remove any straggling clumps of weeds and grass. Finally the moment I'd been longing for had arrived, it was time to plant!!

In fairly short order I had 4 tomato plants in their cages, 2 cucumber plants nestled in their spots, the squash happily ensconced near the strawberries, and the zucchini (after deciding that it needed to move from one end of the garden to the other) planted in a spot where it hopefully will not stage a hostile takeover of the strawberries.

I emptied my pots of the detritus of last years herbs, and the weeds that had happily planted themselves in there. Then I mixed up the dirt and planted my herbs. I grabbed my Preen weed preventer and my Sluggo slug killer, and liberally applied both to the garden.

As I was planting my tomatoes I was thinking of the movie Steel Magnolias where "Wheezer" grows tomatoes even though she hates them because she's a Southern woman and that's what she's supposed to do. I don't really like tomatoes unless they are turned into something else, and yet here I'm growing them in large quantities. Then I remembered the night my mother forced me to eat zucchini and my poor sister ended up cleaning up the projectile vomit that ensued. I had to laugh at myself for growing things in my garden that I not only dislike, but that in fact make me vomit. I do love zucchini bread though, so that's how I'm rationalizing my decision.

I decided to call it a night, after less than my allotted 2 hours had elapsed. But I had to convince myself that I will return on Thursday to try to get the last of the weeds that have woven themselves into the strawberries.

I've got them on the ropes now, I've got to strike while the iron is hot...

All I can say tonight is that I'm truly grateful that the Good Lord in his infinite mercy created Trader Joe's and 2 Buck Chuck!

Things that make me go GRRRRRRR!!!!

These are a few things that have happened in the last couple of days that make me shake my head in wonder...

First of all, why would a man go into a public place and use their restroom and not close the door? I don't care if he's standing up, and his back is to the door... CLOSE THE DOOR!!! Occasionally we have to remind Mason to close the door, but he's 4 years old. By the time you are in your mid-sixties, maybe older than that, you should have learned to close the restroom door because the rest of the world doesn't want to share that moment with you.

So I left work, still fairly disgusted by the guy that didn't close the bathroom door, and was on my way to get my pizzas from Papa Murphy's (Relay for Life Fundraiser) and I pulled into the parking lot by the grocery store and a car pulled out, from a stop sign, in front of me (I'd like to note that I did not have a stop sign, and had the right of way) and proceeded to crawl along in front of the grocery store and then come to a stop. I realized that the car contained an elderly couple who had a handi-cap parking permit hanging from their rear-view. The woman then stops in the fire lane to let her husband out. I patiently waited behind her while he slowly made his way out of the car. The car behind me went around us and turned down a parking lane. Then another car came along, passed me, and almost caused a slow-speed head on collision with a car traveling legally in their own lane trying to exit the parking lot. Still waiting patiently, ok, trying to wait patiently, I sat there. Finally the woman starts to move her car forward again, and I was once again happily en route to my pizzas. The lady stops again about 30' further down the fire lane. This time I decided that I was done being patient, so I drove around her, giving her the angry "WHAT THE HECK???" raised shoulders and glare. Did she think that her parking permit gave her permission to park in a fire lane? I'm reasonably certain that the only vehicles allowed to park in a fire lane are the big red ones with the flashy lights.

Now I must digress a bit, this didn't happen last night, but it happens quite often and it always makes me cranky. This is where my road-rage kicks in, and it all goes back to 4-Way stop signs. Honestly? How hard are they to use? I don't understand why people have such a hard time with them? It makes me really cranky when I'm waiting my turn, and when I'm about to go, someone pulls up to the intersection, and then wave to me like, "Oh, why don't you go ahead?" Really? You're letting me have MY right of way? REALLY? Why, thank you!!! That's SO nice of you.

Ok, back on track... I got my pizzas and made my way home, making a couple of stops along the way. Each time I got back into the car I thought about how wonderful it would be if someone made a car freshener that smelled like Papa Murphy's pizza. I got home, baked and ate some pizza, and played some Nancy Drew. I was much calmer and thought that perhaps my rant about things that make me cranky could wait until another time.

I got up this morning and headed for work. I made a stop at my new favorite coffee place (Coffee Girls in Nooksack - awesome!!) and pulled up to the window and told the girl, "I'd like a 16 oz non-fat coconut latte please." Then I handed her my punchcard and said, "I'd like to use my free one today please." She takes my card and says, "Oh, you have a free one." (Let's review the transcript. Didn't I just say that?) Then she says, "What kind of milk did you want?" I repeated, "Non-fat." She says, "Ok." Then she says, "What flavor did you want, again?" Seriously??? If you have a job that requires making custom orders for someone, perhaps you should listen when they give you their order? Just a thought... I got my coffee and headed for work and decided not to let Slow Witted Coffee Girl bother me.

At this point I need to interject that I had REALLY weird dreams last night messed with my mind. Ok, back to the story...

I walk into work and put my keys and purse away, and head to my dad's desk to drop some stuff off, and Ted greets me with, "Why are you here today?" At this point I'm truly puzzled. I asked him, "Isn't it Wednesday?" We both pondered for a second and determined that it was in fact Wednesday, and I was supposed to be there. I headed back to my desk where I encountered a guy we're going to simply refer to as Numbnuts. I know his name, but I think that Numbnuts suits him better. This guy comes into my store from time to time to rent stuff, usually carpet cleaners. He's always complaining about my equipment, and acts like he's doing me some huge favor by renting from me.

This is the conversation that we had this morning:

Numbnuts: Have either of these machines (gesturing to my carpet shampooers) been refurbished, or cleaned, lately?

Me: (Frostily) They get cleaned every time they are returned

Numbnuts: Oh, really? The filters too?

Me: (Not thawing at all) Yes

Numbnuts: Oh, this one actually looks pretty good. Sometimes they just don't seem to clean as well as other times. But I know that they are older machines. Which one is better?

Me: They are exactly the same (Now mentally envisioning strangling him with his long scraggly hair.)

Numbnuts: Ok, well I'll take this one.

Me: (Silently) Well, Bully for you Jackass. (And then aloud) Ok, sounds good.

Really, why is it necessary for him to criticize my equipment? If he really thinks that it's that terrible, then why doesn't he take his nappy hair and drive himself to another rental place and criticize their stuff?

I really really want to smack that guy.

I think that's all that was really bugging me for the time being.