Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Not really cute

The other morning a local radio station was conducting a poll: what things do girls think are cute, but really aren't? Here are my answers:

Ugg boots. Sorry, no. They're fugly. The more dangly crap and roadkill you put on them the uglier they get. That's why they're called Ugg. That's the sound you make when you see them.

Crocs. Ditto.

Playing dumb/ditzy. Really? Is it 1956 when girls are still supposed to be inferior to boys? We've come a long way. Try not to ruin it for the rest of us.

Sitting next to your boyfriend/husband in restaurant booths and truck cabs. That's a whole kind of insecure that I just don't understand.

Zac Efron and any Carter brother. Blech. 'Nuff said.

Those vinyl stick figures on your car's back window. Nothing like advertising to would-be kidnappers and child molesters just how many children you have for them to snatch.

Having your three-year-old record your voicemail message. I CAN'T UNDERSTAND HIM.

Joint email/Facebook accounts. See comment for "Sitting next to your boyfriend/husband in restaurant booths and truck cabs."

"That's what she said" Thursday

Me: "That's a big mail truck. You know what they say about big mail trucks."

Mom (nods knowingly): "Big packages."



Ok, it wasn't a That's what she said, but it still cracked me up.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Poor, poor Chauncy

A couple of weeks ago I was awoken at about 6:00 a.m. to the sound of birds thrashing in their cage. I sat still in bed, waiting to see if it would happen again. It did, only it didn't stop. I ran downstairs and threw on all the lights to see my lutino cockatiel Chauncy covered in blood and clinging to the side of his cage. Blood was splattered everywhere. You know that episode of Mad Men where the guy's foot gets run over by the John Deere mower? Yeah, it was kind of like that.

Cockatiels can't see in the dark, and they can get frightened by noises and sudden movements (even if they have a nightlight, as Chauncy does). Since birds' natural reaction when frightened is to fly away, they start thrashing around in their cage, and they can injure themselves pretty badly. This last night fright wasn't Chauncy's first, but it was certainly his worst. Seriously, there was blood everywhere. It was splattered on the walls and all over the cage, and even worse it was dripping from Chauncy's wing (where he had broken a blood feather) into a small pool on the bottom of the cage. I grabbed Chauncy and applied some paper towels to his wing to stop the bleeding. (There's actually a powder you can buy to stop bleeding but I don't have any of it. I obviously need to get some.) Once my shoddy first-aid was applied, Chauncy just sat on my finger and let me scratch his head. After a few minutes I put him back in the cage and went back to bed. The next morning I spent a good half hour scrubbing up the blood and disinfecting everything. I also took Chauncy into the shower and got all the blood cleaned off of him, too. I'm happy to say that he's much better now. But here are some gross pictures, just for entertainment value.


The bloody cage

The blood-spattered wall

The blood-covered wing. Blerg!


And here he is happy and healthy, and giving you the stink-eye.

Cheapskate

When I was eleven I went to the grocery store with my dad. Going to the store with Dad was fun because he actually listened to you when you started hounding him to buy item A or product B. My mom had learned years earlier to leave us kids at home or, failing that, to tune us out for as long as she could and then threaten beatings when she couldn't ignore the whining anymore. I didn't know it at the time, but that trip to the grocery store would forever change how I looked at money management.

Everything Dad bought that day, from baggies to cereal, was store brand. Having been quite effectively brainwashed by television commercials for brand-name products, I was horrified. "No, Dad!" I urged, "Buy the Zip-Loc baggies! They're better!"

"How are they better?" He demanded.

How are they better? How are they better?! Well, let's look at the packaging, for one thing. The colors! The professional design job! Everything about the packaging screamed superiority. But that argument didn't fly with my dad.

"They're exactly the same," he insisted. "And I'm not spending four dollars for something I can get for two."

At the time I thought he was a total dweeb. Now that it's my hard-earned money on the line, I'm singing a different tune.

At the grocery store I almost always buy the store brands. I do make an exception for my shampoo and conditioner because I've tried cheaper brands and I just prefer the way Herbal Essences makes my hair feel and smell. But other than that, it's store brands all the way, baby. I've also started clipping coupons. And when I say "clipping coupons," I mean, "printing them from online."

You should totally check out:
savvyshopperdeals.com
shortcuts.com
heraldextra.com/coupons (I think that might only be good for Utah)

They have tons of great coupons, and Savvy Shopper Deals' shopping wizard is totally awesome because it ranks how good the deals are (Wow!; Great; and Good). Seriously, go check them out. You'll save a grip of cash.

And before I buy anything online I always check to see if there's a coupon code for it (there almost always is). I've saved money on Papa John's pizza and shipping, among other things, and just recently Kristen saved sixteen bucks on a new camera because she Googled the site name + coupon code. Buying an airplane ticket? Find the flight you want on a site like Travelocity, then go right to the airline's website and buy the ticket through them. You'll save the $10 booking fee. Because, as Dad said, why spend more for the exact same thing?

When in doubt, haggle. Three years ago I would have been mortified at the thought of haggling for something in a respectable shop, but after seeing a segment on the Today show about haggling and how much money you can save, I decided to give it a try. Last year my sister had her eye on a bench at Pier 1. We went in one day to browse, and she noticed the bench was on sale. It was marked down from about $300 to $189, which was still a bit out of my sister's comfort zone. The sales person came over to see if we needed any help or had any questions. "Well, here's the thing," I told her. "We love this bench, but I don't know that we $189 love it." She went to talk to her manager and informed us that they could reduce the price to $99. I was floored. I thought they might be willing to drop the price to $150, but never in my wildest dreams did I think they would sell it to us for $99. I used the same tactic a while later at a little local shop, and they gave me 15% off. Just because I asked nicely. I'm not saying it always works, but it sure doesn't hurt to ask.

So, yes, I am a cheapskate. Along with pale skin and freckles, a hatred of sports, love of animals, and obsession with correct spelling and grammar, it's just one more thing I've gotten from my dad.

So, now that I've told you how I save money, how about you tell me how you save money?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

People I would like to punch in the face

Here are some people I would really like to punch in the face (in no particular order and not necessarily for any particular reason):

Michael Moore
Ann Coulter
Eddie Murphy
Laurent Ruquier
Bill Maher
Hillary Clinton
Bill Clinton
Susan Sarandon
The Barenaked Ladies
The checker at Target with the crappy "THUG" prison tat on his arm who's always grumpy
Bill O'Reilly
The idiots who have kept The Simpsons on the air ten years longer than they should have
The idiots who canceled Arrested Development and Futurama
The A-hole who teased me all through elementary school and junior high (sadly, he's still alive and hasn't died a horrible, horrible death)
Michael Douglas
Jane Fonda
Whoever wrote/composed "The Monster Mash"
My old boss(es)
Child and animal abusers and rapists (Let's all line up and form a punching machine on those guys)
Lindsey Lohan
Howard Stern
Kanye West
Martha Stewart
Perez Hilton (Thanks, Will.i.am!)

Who would you like to punch in the face?

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Washing the couch

This post is being written as I lie on my stomach, teetering on a pile of slightly damp microfiber pillows. Usually I write my posts (and do pretty much everything except go to the bathroom) nestled in the bosom of my super comfortable couch. But today that's just not possible.

Yesterday I looked at my carpet (dotted with little puppy accidents) and my couch (covered in dog hair and dirtied a shade darker than the beautiful beige it was when I bought it five years ago), and decided it was time for a deep clean. The carpet was easy; I got out the old carpet cleaner and gave it a nice, luxurious washing. Next up, I pulled some of the covers off my couch and gave them a test wash in my washing machine. I was so, so careful, washing them in warm water and the expensive detergent my cousin left here when she moved. I dried them a little in the dryer, and they came out perfect. So I pulled all the rest of the cushion and pillow covers off the couch and threw them in the wash too. After they were clean I put them in the drier on the lowest setting. That's where things took a turn for the worst.

Before the drier had even finished its work, my spidey senses started tingling, telling me something was wrong. I took the covers out of the drier while they were still damp. My heart sank. The darker fabrics didn't take too well to the drying. For lack of another word, they bubbled. The darker the fabric, the more severe the bubbling. Forlorn, I searched the interwebs for a solution to my problem, but in vain. There was no hope to be had. So I grabbed a throw pillow and sat on it. I sat on it until my bum was damp and cold and I was uncomfortable, or about five minutes. I pulled the pillow out from underneath me to see that its appearance had returned to normal. Hurrah! I quickly grabbed the other affected pillows, threw them in a pile on the floor and did a belly flop on top of them. So here I am. Lying on the floor, blogging. I don't know if this will be a permanent solution to my problem, although I pray it is.

This whole thing is really sad; the covers are all super clean and back to their brand-new color. It will be such a bummer if a few bubbly pillows ruin it.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

"That's what she said" Thursday

I had my parents over for dinner Monday night (because I'm a good daughter like that). At the end of the meal, my mom started stacking dishes and said:

"Here, you can put your stuff on my stuff, and--"

Me and Dad: "That's what she said!"

Then we laughed and high-fived each other.

Thursday, October 08, 2009

"That's what she said" Thursday

Work has been slow and even stagnant at times the last few weeks. Needless to say, I'm feeling the stress of watching money go out while no money comes in. So it was with a huge sigh of relief that I saw a new project from my best client waiting for me in my inbox a few minutes ago. I started the download and started whispering to myself:

"Please let it be a big one, please let it be a big one, please let it be a big one..."

Then I grinned and began chuckling, "That's what she said, that's what she said, that's what she said..."

Seriously, though, I do hope it's a big one.











That's what she said.

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Calling closure

So remember that time I was supposed to go meet with one of the bishop's counselors and I just knew I was going to get a calling? But then I got sick and had to cancel the meeting? Well, they finally tracked me down again and called me in for the meeting wherein they would ruin my life by calling me as a primary teacher or nursery leader. I girded my loins and went in.

I was delightfully shocked when it turned out my new calling wouldn't involve dealing with anybody under the age of eighteen, or even demand more than, say, half an hour a month. After all my worst-case-scenarioing (shut up, it's a word), it turns out that I got the absolute awesomest calling I could ever hope to get!

VISITING TEACHING SUPERVISOR!!!

Hallelujah! I had this calling back during my BYU days. It wasn't a big deal at all. People either call you and tell you they got their visiting teaching done, or you call them at the end of the month, they tell you they didn't do it, and you mark it down. So. Freaking. Awesome!

Needless to say, this is some very, very good news!

But it still wasn't funny when the counselor sent me on my way with a teasing, "Don't worry, I'm sure next time we call you in it will be to call you as a primary teacher."

Ha. Ha.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Thanks, K-Lo!


I absolutely love getting stuff in the mail, so much so that I look forward to getting the mail every day on the off chance that maybe somebody sent me something or that something will arrive from Amazon that I totally forgot I ordered. Most days that isn't the case and my mail consists only of weekly circulars and bills. But today! Today I got a package from Kristen! I was super psyched! I got the package home and tore into it. Inside I found a dog toy, a bag of doggy treats, and a card congratulating me on my adoption of Baby Milo. How nice is that?! Most people, when I told them about the new puppy, called me "crazy" and/or accused me of being a "hoarder," but Kristen was sweet enough to sincerely congratulate me. That was awesome enough, but puppy presents on top of it is honestly one of the nicest things anybody's ever done for me (seeing as I've never had/probably never will have wedding or baby showers). And was Milo as excited about his presents as I was?


You be the judge.


Thanks again, Kristen!

Meet Baby Milo

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a sucker for animals, especially puppies. I like to think of my love for animals as a positive thing; it means I have a heart. I don't trust anybody who doesn't love puppies. What kind of sicko doesn't look at puppies and think they're adorable? But I'm getting off track. I'm trying to say that it was this love of adorable puppies that caught me off guard last Saturday when my sister and I ran to WalMart* to pick up a few quick items.

Walking up to the door I saw a mother and her son standing there with a tiny chihuahua puppy at their feet. "Look at the baby!" I squealed at my sister! "It's a baby!" I ran up and started scratching the puppy's tiny ears. "Are you selling him?" I asked. They informed me that they were, indeed, selling him, so I picked him up. It couldn't hurt to just snuggle him a bit, right? He licked my face in excitement, then settled in for a snuggle. I'm always curious to know how much people are asking for their puppies, so I asked. "$100.00," they replied.

A hundred bucks?! Are you kidding me? Your average chihuahua puppy runs around $400-$600. The price caught me off guard. I don't have a problem walking away from a $400 puppy when I'm not in the market, but $100 is something to think about. I snuggled the puppy a few seconds longer, then looked at my sister, a wide grin slowly spreading across my face. "I'm getting him," I announced. "You're crazy," she declared, but obviously excited I was getting the puppy.

It took a good part of the day, but I finally decided to name the new baby Milo. There were several serious contenders, but they didn't fit as well with the other dog names, Daphne and Roxy. Milo. It'll work. The second my mom saw me walking up with the puppy she asked, "How much did you pay for it?"

"A hundred bucks."

"I will give you one hundred dollars for it," she said matter-of-factly.

My sister had made me the same offer just a few minutes earlier. I politely refused both offers. Milo was mine.

So it's been a week and a half since Milo joined our furry, feathery, and scaly family. For the most part it's a blast. He's so cute and snuggly and likes to take naps on my chest while we lounge on the couch. He also loves to play with the bigger dogs and has a hilarious little bark. The stuff that's not cool is that puppies are a lot of work (I should know, Milo is the third puppy I've raised). I'm going to go ahead and make the completely uninformed declaration that puppies are harder to deal with than a newborn baby (but not older babies that can move around). I have to get up to take Milo out in the middle of the night--sometimes twice. He also requires constant vigilance lest I turn my head for one minute and turn around to find him chewing on an electrical cord (one of his favorite naughtinesses) or peeing on my carpet. To combat the latter, I adhere to a strict potty training regime that involves taking Milo out after he eats, drinks, sleeps, or plays, and every twenty minutes in between. He has already proven to be easier to potty train than Daphne or Roxy because he goes to the bathroom the second you take him outside--no waiting around begging, "Go potty! Go potty!" With both Daphne and Roxy I'd stand outside for twenty minutes at a time and have to walk around backward to keep them from sitting on my feet because the grass was too cold for their tiny feet. Ah, the joys of children!

*Lest you think I'm in the habit of buying puppies in front of the WalMart on a whim, you should know this is the first time I've ever bought a dog in this manner, and afterward I was like, "Holy crap, I can't believe I just bought a puppy from strangers at the WalMart." Every other time I've bought a pet I've given it serious thought and reflection before heading out to buy a new animal. I also firmly believe that when you take in an animal, you have a responsibility to keep that animal and provide the best care you can until either you or it die. If you get a pet with the idea that you can always get rid of it if you decide you don't want it anymore, then you shouldn't be getting one in the first place. There, I'll climb off my soapbox now.

Monday, October 05, 2009

Schedules

I might have to break down and make myself one of those schedule things. I used to have an unofficial schedule where I'd get up, go to work, come home, work out, watch TV, and go to bed. Ever since I quit my job, my schedule has slowly declined into wake up, lounge on couch in pajamas/work, watch TV, go to bed. I've gone from getting dressed six days a week to maybe putting on some clothes I found on the floor about twice a week. Seriously, you know it's bad when you're too gross to even go through the McDonald's drive-thru for lunch.

Yeah, it's time to get a schedule. And I guess showering should go somewhere on it...

Bread baking

My grandma used to bake really good bread. Whenever we visited, we'd have thick slices of homemade toast and jam for breakfast. It was heaven. But for some reason Grandma quit baking bread. I don't know why. Probably because she was tired of baking loaves upon loaves of bread only to have us descend like locusts and clear out every last crumb. Now she buys bagged bread like the rest of us. Toast and jam at Grandma's just isn't the same anymore.

I asked her a couple of years ago if she would give me her recipe. "Oh, honey," she chuckled. "It's just a plain old white bread recipe." I didn't push the issue, even though I didn't know any plain old white bread recipes, and subsequent comparisons of recipes found online and in my few meager cookbooks turned up more variances than common points. I've tried a few bread recipes over the past couple of years, but none of them come anywhere close to Grandma's.

Today I remembered that before he died my grandpa compiled small binders of family recipes for everybody. Maybe Grandma's bread recipe is in there! I hoped. Navigating the recipes didn't turn up Grandma's recipe, but I did discover my great-grandma's bread recipe. My great-grandma died when I was eight years old, but I still remember (and she's still hailed for) her really great dinner rolls. So I decided it would be worth a shot to bake a batch of her bread.



I got out the Kitchen-Aid mixer and all the ingredients. I began following the recipe, but started suspecting something was off when it called for six cups of water. SIX. CUPS. I became more worried as the bowl filled with each cup I added. Why didn't it occur to me that Great-Grandma's bread recipe would yield more than a loaf or two since she, like my grandma, probably baked bread rather than buy it from the store. My optimism that all the dough would fit in the bowl slowly dwindled as I began adding cup after cup of flour, turning the concoction from soup into glue before it was finally too much to be contained. With a heavy heart I resigned myself to the idea that I would have to knead by hand instead of letting the dough hook do all the work. I sprinkled flower on the counter and poured the massive dough baby on top. I added more flour, kneaded, flour, kneaded, and so on, until almost the entire new bag of flour was gone and the dough seemed to be the right consistency.

I then set it aside to let it rise. After about an hour, I punched it down and kneaded some more. I knew all that dough wasn't going to fit in my two bread pans, so I devised a clever plan for the extra three loaves I got out of the recipe; two would go on a cookie sheet and one would go in the funky-sized pan. I let them rise for half an hour then baked them for about forty minutes. They looked freaking delish and smelled even better!

I patiently let them cool for a while, then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, cut off a thick slice.

It was bland. Not enough salt, too much sugar. I suspected as much when I was making it. I guess Great-Grandma spent so much time perfecting her rolls her bread recipe suffered.





But I'll find a way to gag it down.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

A small taste of what it's like to be me

If I had to describe my life, I would personify it as a pasty, red-haired older brother who's constantly dangling awesome stuff just within my reach then jerking it back again just as my fingertips start to get a grip. Then it laughs maniacally through crooked, braces-lined teeth.

A case in point:

Yesterday I found a piece to one of my aquarium filters that I thought was long gone and lost for good. I mean, this thing had been M.I.A. since I moved more than two years ago. So imagine my surprise when I was cleaning the aquarium I was about to sell and found this little filter part just hanging out in the aquarium stand, wedged between the middle and bottom shelves. With an enthusiastic "All right!" I put the filter piece in my pocket and carried on with my cleaning.

But life would not let me have my filter piece and use it too.

This morning I remembered yesterday's find and eagerly rushed to fit the filter piece in its proper place--no longer would my filter be held into position by a wad of Saran Wrap! I found the tiny hole where the piece should be mounted and inserted it. Then I turned it to get it positioned correctly, which is when I heard a small snap, and found the now-broken filter piece lying useless in my hand.

"OF COURSE!" I spat.

After which, I may or may not have childishly thrown the broken filter piece across the kitchen floor.

I wonder what life is going to tease me with next?

Thursday, September 17, 2009

ldfjdskjfown! Morrissey! sdkfjlajoioih

I make no secret of the fact that I am a huge Morrissey fan. Huge. Like, colossal. I love that man. My uterus is permanently reserved for the child(ren) that I'm ready to bear him, should he find himself in need of an incubator. I LOVE HIM. Ok, *deep breath* collecting myself and toning down the creepiness.

A few months ago a friend and I went to France (among other France-like countries) on vacation, and our trip fortuitously coincided with his France dates. I had tickets to see him in Lille, but he wound up having to cancel that show due to illness, and I wound up having my heart shattered into a kagillion tiny pieces. Dis. A. Pointed. But we managed to resume our vacation and still have a good time, even though it was Moz-concert-free. Bbbbooo.

But today I got capital news! Morrissey has started adding more U.S. dates to his tour! Hallelujah! I'd like to think that eventually he'll be adding the SLC to his schedule, but for now I'm stoked that he'll be playing Las Vegas on December 5. I've started keeping my eye out for the on-sale date and trying to find a travel/concert partner. I'm crossing my stubby little fingers that he doesn't wind up canceling that date, too. I so badly want to see him in concert again; the two times I saw him (in 2007) were dreamy. So, chances are really good that I'll be driving to Vegas in a few months. And here's hoping that the Moz, in his infinite wisdom, sees fit to add a Salt Lake date as well.

Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please!

"That's what she said" Thursday

Mom squeezes a lemon wedge into her Diet Coke. It slips out of her fingers and into her drink.

Mom [visibly disappointed]: "Ohhh, I wasn't done squeezing it yet!"
Me: "That's what she said!"

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

One step closer to a less messy bird

Birds like to get into trouble and make messes, especially my green cheek conure, Jiles (see sidebar for photo). He's only about four or five inches tall, but he leaves a swath of destruction behind him a mile wide. He loves shredding Kleenexes, tearing up his cage liner, and detaching toys from his cage and throwing them on the floor, often breaking pieces off in the process. He recently figured out that he's strong enough to pick up his entire food or water dish and throw it on the cage floor. It wouldn't be such a big deal if his bird food weren't so expensive and the water didn't make such a mess, but it is and it does, ergo problem. I've explained to him time and again that food and water dishes are a privilege, not a right, but he just keeps on picking them up and throwing them down with renewed gusto.

I got sick of cleaning up his spilled dishes, so I tried tying them down with those little twisty things that come with garbage and bread bags. They just piqued his curiosity. He actually started getting excited when he would see me coming with a new twist tie and set to work on it like a puzzle to solve, a birdie Rubik's cube. Pretty soon he learned how to untwist them, as evidenced by the mangled twisties left on the floor beneath his cage and the spilled food and water on the cage floor. I was just about to surrender when I read a blog post by another bird nerd whose Senegal parrot kept escaping through her food doors (thankfully Jiles hadn't figure out how to do that yet, but I swear it was coming). He solved the problem by buying a couple of those spring-loaded clip key chains and locking the food door from the outside. Freaking brilliant! There was my solution!

I hit up the local Lowe's, but all theirs were too big for what I needed, so I opted for a couple of small luggage locks. Jiles instantly climbed down and started trying to chew through the locks when he saw me clipping them on. Sucker. Those babies worked like a charm. No more wasted food or sopping, gooey cage liners to clean up. I'm going to be whizzed if I have to remove the keys because Jiles learned how to work them. And I wouldn't put it past him. He's a pretty smart little bird.

Now, if you're lucky, I might share my solution for cleaning algae out of aquariums.

Monday, September 14, 2009

How sick am I?

  • I turned down M&Ms and Dairy Queen ice cream, opting instead to slump in the back seat
  • Showering and getting ready to take my sister to lunch wore me clean out
  • Lunch at Olive Garden wore me out further
  • I had to sit down and rest while walking through Pier 1
  • I was ready to go to bed at 5:30
Being sick is getting so old. But I think I'm on the mend--feeling better every day.

Plants vs. Zombies

I first heard about Plants vs. Zombies while reading Jorge Garcia's (you know, he plays Hurley on "LOST") blog. I'm not usually one for computer games, but this one just kind of stuck in my head until I finally checked it out. I got the free trial download from PopCap here, then spent about three hours straight protecting my virtual house from the zombies that were crossing my yard to eat my juicy, delicious brains. That was enough to get me hooked, and I soon found myself at my local Target (love you, Target!!!) buying the full version. No matter where you go Plants vs Zombies costs $20. That doesn't seem like a big price to pay for the amount of entertainment I've gotten out of this game.

Thank heaven I picked it up before my cold hit me full-force. I've spent the bulk of my weekend watching NCIS marathons and devising strategies to keep scary, moaning zombies off my virtual front lawn. The awesome thing is that PvZ helped keep my mind off of how crappy I felt. The bad thing is that sometimes I got so anxious I would have to put it away for a bit. Sure it's funny, but I think there's something deeply disturbing about hearing crunching noises and seeing a giant THE ZOMBIES ATE YOUR BRAIN! flash across your screen when you lose. Thankfully, I win way more than I lose.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Siiiiiiick

It's official. I'm sick. And it's officially sucktacular. Sure, it's a good excuse to leave my house a huge mess, but I feel terrible! I have a nagging headache, a sore neck (from lying down so much), a runny nose, a congested chest, and so on and so forth. What super sucks is I was supposed to go to Olive Garden tonight with some of the girls from church (I'm trying to make new friends and be more sociable). I had to text in sick, which is tragic because I triple love Olive Garden and we were supposed to go to the new one that just opened up the street. Figures. The good/bad news is I also called and canceled my appointment with the bishop's counselor because there's no way I'm going to try to get dressed in my Sunday finest when I feel like a big lump of rotting meat. So now I won't know what my calling is until who knows when. But at least I have another blissful week without a calling! I guess every cloud has a silver, snotty lining.

So, how have I spent the past twenty-four hours? Lying in bed and lying on the couch staring at the TV. I slept like total crap last night because my nose would drip every twenty to thirty minutes and wake me up. I finally just started keeping the Kleenex box next to my pillow. As soon as I'd feel a tickle I'd wake up, blow, and then throw the Kleenex on the tissue pile next to the bed. It's all very sanitary and classy. I'm going to take a Lunesta or Ambien tonight and see if that doesn't help me stay asleep better. Bleeeeeeh!

This morning while I was zoning on the couch I decided I really needed some orange juice and saltines. I called my dad at 11:50 and asked him if he wouldn't be so kind as to run to the store and grab me some. He said my mom had the car (they have one main car and one crappy, unregistered car that they keep for emergencies) but he would tell her to pick me up that stuff as soon as she got home. So I waited...

And I waited.

.
.
.
.

Waited some more...

.
.
.
.
.
.

Finally at 5:00 I called my parents again. This time my mom picked up. "Did Dad gib you by bessage?"

"What message?"

I got her up to speed, and she was horrified to hear that I'd been waiting all day for orange juice and saltines. She got in the crappy emergency car (Dad had obviously forgotten about me and gone to run some errand in the good car) and came over, bringing a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy's and enough food to feed a sick person for a week:

Four big cans of soup
Two Cups o' Noodles
One box of saltine crackers
One box of Twinkies
One box toaster strudel
One box Keebler fudge stripe cookies
Two Hostess cherry pies (Gee, I'm starting to get why I have a bit of a weight problem...)
Two bottles of orange juice without pulp

My. Mom. Is. AWESOME!!! I won't lie, I told her a Hostess cherry pie sounded really good, but I didn't tell her to get me the other stuff. When I asked my dad to bring me orange juice I thought about specifying no pulp, but I didn't want to be demanding; I would just be grateful that somebody would bring me delicious juice. But my mom is so awesome she somehow knows I prefer pulpless orange juice, and it's not like we grew up drinking it every day or anything... She's just endowed with that special mom-awesomeness.

Lest you think my dad is some selfish, lazy jerk who won't bring his daughter juice and saltines when she's sick, you should know that he called me when my mom was on the way and apologized profusely. You should also know that he once left a New Year's Eve party when I was seventeen and had a nasty, nasty, nasty flu* to go to the store and buy me chocolate cake from the bakery. I hadn't eaten in days because I had no appetite, and I finally thought that chocolate cake sounded good (can you tell I crave junk when I'm sick?), so I called and asked if he would go buy me a chocolate cake mix. He left the party immediately (it's very rare that my dad actually leaves on errands the second you ask him to go--it's not his fault, it's genetic) and bought me, not a cake mix, but an actual chocolate bundt cake from the bakery. It was delicious because it was delivered with love. And because it was frosted. Too bad I could only get two bites of it down before I passed out again and slept through midnight. But the point is, my dad is as awesome as my mom. Unless he just wasn't having fun at that New Year's Eve party...

Monday is my sister's birthday and my mom and I are supposed to take her to lunch to celebrate. I hope I'm feeling much better by then. Even if I'm not I might just have to suck it up. I don't want to skip out on Olive Garden twice because of this stupid devil cold.



*I only get sick about once every two years because I have an awesome immune system of steel and because I have very limited interactions with the giant germ factories that are children. Sadly, when illnesses do get through, they're the really nasty ones. That's why I remember sicknesses--rarity and severity. Kind of a back-handed blessing.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Insult + Injury = Me

I haven't been feeling 100% lately. Kinda sore, scratchy throat, kinda congested chest ("conchested"), tired a lot... Well, tired a lot is really par for the course. But the throat and chest, that's not. I've been treating my sore throat with copious amounts of ice cream, and I've prescribed a wait-and-see policy for the chest. I haven't died yet so my home remedies must be working. But my point is, I'm not feeling real gangbusters right now. So of course it would be now that I would get a phone call from...

DUN DUN DUUUUUUN!

The bishop's secretary.

[Groan!]

For those not familiar with how we Mormons roll, we have no paid clergy; everything is carried out on a volunteer (well, not really volunteer) basis. The bishop heads up his local church group (called a ward), and other people fill in other duties (called callings)--anything from accounting to teaching to writing up the weekly church program. Every job is a calling, every calling is issued from the bishop and his counselors. If the bishop were the head of a major crime syndicate (he's not... probably), the counselors would be his henchmen. The bishop is a very busy man so the counselors do a lot of his dirty work, like scheduling appointments and issuing callings.

That's where the insult comes in. I got that call from the bishop's secretary asking me to come in Sunday and meet with one of the counselors. There's really only one thing it could be for.

A calling.

A calling... A calling... I've gone two blissful years without a calling. It's not so much that I mind having a calling, it's the fear of what the calling could possibly be. The finalists for scariest, most undesired callings are primary teacher or primary presidency (primary is the children's [ages 3-12] organization) or nursery leader (nursery is for children ages 18 months to three years--the diaper and potty training years). Children. Terrify. Me. The bodily fluids! The bodily fluids!!! I've also found children to be quite touchy and unaware of societal restrictions on personal space. I didn't want to say it before, but I suspect my current ailment traces back to my three-year-old niece. She's cute as a button, which is her sickness germs' greatest weapon in their offensive arsenal. She's so adorable my sister kisses and hugs her. The germs stick to my sister who breathes them on to me. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this. Now, imagine being in a small church room with THIRTY sick three-year-olds! It would be a miracle if I came out alive, or even with a functioning kidney. Fingers crossed I don't get called to the primary or nursery! Eep!

You know what calling I'd really like? I want to type up the weekly church bulletin. I can't think of a better calling. I'd know all the latest poop going on in the ward, and I'd make sure those bulletins were 100% typo-free. It would be awesome. Kid-free and not a lot of time involved. That's the calling for me.

But I think that's probably too much to hope for. Now, everybody cross your fingers and/or pray that I get single adult rep again. It's a cop-out calling they give to single people they don't know what to do with, but at least I wouldn't have to do much.

Until Sunday, I'll assume the worst.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Kickin' depression in the crotch

A couple of weeks ago I was engulfed in the sticky, smelly mire that is unmedicated depression, and oh boy, was it fun! Sleeping late and still not wanting to get up, cramming a lot of fast food down my already over-stuffed gullet (that's probably not really a symptom of the depression so much as what I'd like to think is the cure), and my motivation-o-meter needle dipping way past zero. But I was eventually able to ride the depression wave to safety (without cutting or suicidal thoughts, even!) and the ambition-fest that was yesterday, September 8, 2009.

When I'm in one of my depression slumps, the smallest chore might as well be climbing Mount... well some really high mountain (it's late and I don't want to think of a high mountain--oo! Everest!). But last week I eventually mustered the courage and motivation to vacuum my living room. That got me rolling and set the stage for yesterday when I:

  • Did all my laundry and changed my sheets
  • Power cleaned my aquarium including an 80% water change, cleaning the filters, and scrubbing and razoring the algae off the sides
  • Moving the cable box from my bedroom TV to the living room TV (If you'd ever seen how impossible it is to set up crap on my living room TV, you would be appropriately impressed right now and murmuring to each other in tones of awe and admiration)
  • Rearranging the bird cages so Percy no longer has to sit next to the dark hallway
That doesn't sound like a whole lot, but it's a lot for me, dang it, so shut your noise hole. My days are composed of sitting in front of the TV either working or watching TV or both. Mine is a very exciting life full of very important things.

The bird cage switcheroo might cause a bit of a problem. I pushed Percy's ginormo cage over to where Chauncy and Olive were living, and pushed Chauncy and Olive next to Jiles's cage. I leave everybody's cage doors open so they can come and go as they please during the day, but Jiles has started making himself at home in the cockatiels' cage (much to their horror, I assure you). The already portly Jiles has started helping himself to their seed dish (much tastier than his extruded pellets) and drinking from their water. That might be forgivable if he hadn't started playing on their play gym and taking naps on their cage top. But other than Jiles's bad manners and wearing out his welcome, there hasn't been any biting or fighting, although if they were in a bird version of West Side Story, there were a couple of times that would have been the equivalent of slouching and snapping, pre-fight style. As for Percy, he just seems glad to be out in the light again and in a place where he can keep his beady little stink eye on me at all times. I'll be honest, though. If I can't get a human male to be a jealous boyfriend, at least I have a bird who, when he looks at me, makes me think of The Police's "Every Breath You Take" and fidget uncomfortably a little.

The fish couldn't give a toss.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Guess who I'm not voting for now?

Tonight I found this stuck in my front flower bed:





Here's what I did with it:




Get permission first, Chad.

Apocalypse

A few weeks ago I started watching Jericho over my Roku box. It's a TV show that takes place in a small town in Kansas after a nuclear attack on the United States. I started watching it on a Saturday night (shut up!), and by the time the third episode started, I vowed that first thing Monday morning I was going to head to WalMart and stock up on food and water. I did. I also stocked up on a few other necessities (see image), courtesy of Smith's five cases for $13 sale.

What you see there is thirty-three cases of Diet Coke lining my basement wall. Three hundred and ninety-six cans of delicious, joy-filled Diet Coke for me to drink up to and during the apocalypse, should it occur within the next six months, which is approximately how long my supplies should last. (I figure there will be another sale I can stock my reserves back up with by then.) Is Diet Coke a necessity? Well, not technically, no. But would it help to make an unbearable situation a little more bearable? Definitely. (Also good for bartering!)

So, what would you stock up on for the apocalypse?

An Introduction

Well, hello! Let's get to know each other, shall we? I should warn you up front that I live in a black hole of dorkishness. I don't have an actual job so I don't really have that to complain or be sarcastic about. I do, however, have three fish, four birds, and two dogs that supply me with lots of great stories about the funny thing Mr. Fluffypants did yesterday or the time Admiral von Snuggywumpums got into a fight with Sweeties McCuddlesalot and I had to put them both in time out until they apologized to each other. I figured it could make good blog fodder, so here I am! I bet I'm looking forward to writing my posts almost as much as you're looking forward to reading them. To the future! *clink!*