I had Ohio State.
I had Ohio State.
Shifting gears out of the deep end, you know what is one of my biggest pet peeves? Automatic bathroom appliances in public bathrooms. I have lived 29 years and have probably been determining the appropriate amount of hand soap for myself for about 26 of those years. I don’t need a fake machine brain to portion out a dollop of soap at a time. That soap dispenser has no idea what may have taken place seconds before someone required its services.
And the towel dispensers. Oh my word. Those things can push me over the edge. The motion sensor must be a millimeter wide and my spindly little wrists are not substantial enough to activate it. I can never, ever, ever perform that sassy wave and grab that people with presumably meatier wrists have mastered. I am reduced to banging and upper body calisthenics to see that tiny red light, and then just as I am filled with glee at my success, the wheel stops. The paper towel for my dripping wet hands is the size of a toilet paper square. By the time my sopping hands can finagle it out of the machine, it’s nothing but wet, crumbling shreds. And there are still giant beads of water falling from my fingertips and pooling on the floor.
Not to mention the automatic toilet flusher. Flush when I blink or turn my head 3 degrees to the right, but not when I am finished peeing and frantically waving my hand in front of the sensor. There is a line of women outside that door and they can probably see my shadow of insanity in this stall. Finally, we all know the end result is a ninja kick to the miniscule manual black button. For some reason it feels like a failure of womanhood to use it.
My deepest fear is what may be coming next: automated toilet paper dispensers. Cannot, will not tolerate it. I’d rather pay to use public restrooms. I’ll take up a second job for my Bathroom Budget, but PLEASE do not mess with my toilet paper.
I’m all about quality content over here at WPW. And I’ve noticed that Joe Blog Reader goes absolutely banananuts over one thing: recipes. So I’ve decided to transition over to the food/cooking realm and share some tried and true culinary delights. You might not believe it, but these first class creations are all from one day in the life of yours truly.
Ok, this one isn’t a recipe, but it is a helpful reminder that great chefs are nothing if not resourceful. We were running low on veggies since I haven’t gone to the store in seven weeks, and mama needed some greens. So, while they normally serve as bi-lateral ice packs for my aching knees, tonight’s vegetable du jour is one of the following.
I think the three months they’ve been taken out of the freezer for 15 minute increments and then re-frozen will make them taste right-from-the-farm fresh. Plus, it will be extra fun as we play “Guess How Many Days Past the ‘Best by’ Date These Are” during dinner.
I wouldn’t have shared my original lunch with you because it was a predictable snooze fest. But when I opened the hummus to find a family of fuzzy mold spores grimacing at all that light, I had to change things up.
1. Perform taste test on cream cheese to ensure freshness using index finger and 2 tablespoons of cream cheese. If questionable, repeat step 1. If sour, reduce amount by half, repeat step 1, then discard. When food safety is confirmed, move to step 2.
2. Use pita chip as bulldozer to scoop up three times the appropriate amount of cream cheese on each chip.
3. Eat until no evidence remains of either ingredient.
Every time I went for a long-ish run over the past few weeks, I would start feeling icky and nauseous about 30 minutes afterwards. That usually coincided with my shower, and more than once I had to stop and sit down in the shower for fear of getting sick all up on that showerhead. And you know how I clean…woulda got real nasty real fast.
So tonight I wanted to experiment by eating right after my run. Because I got A’s in Metabolism I and II and Science of Nutrition, I know how to build a balanced meal.
1. Get a spoonful of peanut butter.
2. Dip spoon with peanut butter into Cheerios. Remove. Pause over Cheerios to let the stragglers fall off the spoon.
3. Repeat until spoon gets stuck on roof of mouth.
4. Use second spoon to dislodge the first.
5. Repeat steps 1-3 until your spouse is caught staring at you in horror.
This quick and easy recipe totally worked to curb the nausea and my husband’s attraction to me for the rest of the night.
So there you have it. Plan accordingly.
1. You own something emblazoned with a Disney character. And you have not yet banished it to the memories box in the attic.
2. You spell things phonetically, not correctly.
3. You shrug absentmindedly when I quote Dumb and Dumber, instead of following up with the next line.
4. You don’t know what “unfortch” or “whatevs” mean.
5. You expect me to wear make up or pants, even if I’m not at work or church.
6. You won’t let me grip your wrist for the entire duration of a plane trip. Or you to attempt to have any sort of conversation during said flight.
7. You’ve only seen Jurassic Park 15 times or less. Or, God help your soul, you haven’t seen it.
8. You own a cat.
9. You correct my sarcasm.
10. You decide to learn a new song on your guitar during Shark Week. Cough. Cough.
About two weeks ago, on a Friday night, Clayton and I were spending the evening lazying it up on the couch. Apparently, Friday evenings can put some little creatures hard at work, and one of those happened to catch my eye as it scurried from under the bathroom door, around the corner of the wall to the kitchen, and right up under the stove. Yes. I saw it with my very own eyes — the fuzzy grey fur, the long, pale tail. We had a mouse. In our house. And I saw it.
Whatever reaction you’re imagining, I probably handled it much worse. The next half hour was spent drilling imaginary holes through the oven with my laser stare that I refused to remove from the exact spot where I last saw the mouse. I had the very logical reasoning that if I didn’t move, neither would little mouseketeer. At the same time, I tried to stuff my knees farther and farther into my esophagus to keep my toes as far as possible from the floor. Because mice will chew off your toenails. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.
My darling hero of a husband cleaned out the pot drawer underneath the stove and cleared out all the lower cabinets just to prove his theory that the mouse was no longer under the stove but had escaped back into the hidden mouse kingdom he’s been maintaining behind our walls. He appeared to be right, even though I HADN’T STOPPED LOOKING AT THE SPOT. Clayton put on a brave face, but I saw the way he stayed up on his toes, ready to hurdle the kitchen counter if necessary. No one likes a mouse. In their house.
So, we made a midnight trip to Wal-Mart and stocked up on several different kinds of mouse traps. For two people with a combined three and a half college degrees, that was one of the most confusing experiences of our lives. I don’t know if it’s a tribute to the endless supply of American consumerism or a scary indication of how sadistic we can be, but there were like 17 different options to kill a mouse. You can poison them, trap them on a sticky mat, capture them in a disc, or simply lure them with peanut butter and break their neck. We went with the peanut butter.
Our first stop the next morning was the front office of our apartment complex. As horrified as the office worker was, she said the earliest anyone could treat our apartment would be the following Friday. A week to live with a mouse in our house. We complained and called during the week, but the pest guy still didn’t show up until Friday. And my calves were looking better than they ever have from walking around for 7 straight days on my toes. The “professional” pest control technician put down traps with the sticky mat about three inches away from the traps we had already placed around the apartment. Good work, team. And then we learned another valuable lesson about catching mice: you can’t. You put out your peanut butter, and you wait. Every morning you have to peak with one eye into the cracks and corners where the traps are set, partly hoping the little bugger will be in there and also, as a general life rule, not really wanting to see a dead rodent. So the traps had been out for a few days and we’d begun to live life normally again, almost walking flat-footed, albeit a bit more conscious of falling asleep with leftovers scattered around the kitchen.
And then Tuesday night I heard a very unsettling noise coming from the kitchen. Under the stove. Clayton had fallen asleep on the couch, and I was working on an assignment for class. I didn’t want to wake Clayton up for nothing, so I tiptoed to the kitchen counter, staying as far away from the stove as I possibly could while still being able to see around the corner. Nothing. About 45 minutes later, I heard the pots shift again, and then I heard the snap. It was muffled, and I wasn’t exactly sure, but deep down I think I knew what had just happened to Mr. Whiskerfritz. I peeked around the corner again, just to say I’d done it, but I didn’t come even close to touching anything in that kitchen. I hated to wake Clayton up, so I finished my assignment and waited to see if I would wake from this kooky, totally-foreign-to-a-Floridian dream. No such luck. I gave Clayton a little shake and tried to explain to his half-asleep mind what I thought had happened. And my husband came through yet again. And I didn’t question his sanity for doing it barefoot. Again. He went to the kitchen and looked in the traps next to the refrigerator, but they were clear. He pulled out the pot drawer for the second time, and our problem was solved. In a peanut butter trap. Furry butt up in the air. The next half hour became a sitcom-worthy scenario of trying to figure out how to dispose of little Fievel. Eventually he made it to the dumpster, along with one of our yellow latex cleaning gloves, and my feet made it back down to the floor after my hamstrings started to cramp from an hour of constant flexing.
At this point, I’m telling myself we had a mouse problem, not a mice problem, so that I can sleep at night. But just to be sure, that trap by the head of my bed is staying put.
If you have hair growing out of your scalp, and you do not happen to have a penis, you’re going to want to nominate me for sainthood when I tell you what I’ve been doing for the good of my family.
For the past three weeks, I’ve been living life sans blow dryer. I know. I’ll give you a minute to process the shock and admiration of it all. It was a truly risky move considering how it’s coinciding with my wanting to grow out my hair. But, in the interest of complete honesty, it had become necessary after my old blow dryer started shooting sparks into the air every time I used it. Clayton told me, very somberly, that it was time to say goodbye. And also that he would not stay married to me if my hair caught fire due to my stubbornness. And so I parted ways from the trusty, dependable ConAir I’d had for about 11 years. Give or take. That ol’ girl had seen me through more than one questionable celebrity-inspired trip to the stylist. And even if I hadn’t gone in months, and I couldn’t boast evenly trimmed ends or a professionally washed scalp, I could know for certain that my hair was, without question, dry.
But life is about change. And not making headlines for a freak apartment fire in which the tenant lost half her hair and one eyebrow due to a malfunctioning blow dryer. So, goodbye, dear ConAir. You probably won’t be missed because, let’s get real, those sparks scared the crap out of me. But you will represent a period in my life when paying for a new work shirt for Clayton came first, and – pneumonia be damned - beauty came second.
Let’s talk a little bit about what is not on the top of my list of Ways to Spend My Days of Unemployed Bliss Delirium:
Listening to Dr. Oz talk about blackheads accompanied by full screen, close-up images
Putting Bryson into a full nelson every time someone walks by the front door to try and stop him from barking like a rabid pit bull
Applying to mysterious “writer” jobs on Craigslist that turn out to be reviewing adult web sites. It’s a whole new meaning for entry level.
Watching MORE snow fall as a second winter storm blows through Virginia. I want to find all those people who assured us “It doesn’t snow here!” and shove their lying faces into the icy white prison building up outside our windows. And also send them our electric bill.
Clicking on additional images of The Perfect House to find out it has wood-paneled walls, large gaping holes where all the appliances should be, and floor to ceiling nauseatingly floral wallpaper in every room
*No, you did not misread that. Having 9 extra hours of free time a day has not motivated me to participate in any type of activity that could be construed as healthy or beneficial. Unless Bravo reality show reruns are considered “healthy” now. I’m not sure because I stopped reading health magazines the second I stopped working as a personal trainer.
What have you not been doing lately?
I shouldn’t be telling you this. I should be closing down my web browser, shutting off my computer, and taking Bryson for a long walk in the snow-turned-sludge. But we just got our internet hooked up at Casa Noa and I cannot pull myself away from its back-lit, one-click-away deliciousness.
So apparently there are these things called doppelgangers. And somehow they slept with somebody that makes really important decisions and they got their own Doppelganger Week. At least that’s what Facebook tells me. And if my FB tells me something, you can rest assured I’m believing it because I’m going to guess that about two weeks before it happens, there will be an “I’m Totally Stoked for the Impending Apocalypse” Facebook event with the exact date because those people are about 3 “likes” away from taking over the world. You know it’s true. So anyway, I’m seeing all these profile pictures that look kind of like my “friends” except, wait a sec, that’s not you, girl I had one class with my freshman year, that’s a total celebrity! And at first I thought, how lame. Why would you want someone who looks kind of like you only a million times hotter on your profile so that everyone can see what you might look like if you had an entire team of professionals getting you ready every day and not what you actually look like, which is perfectly attractive until you compare it to a celebrity? And then I thought, I want one!!!
I ran a half-hearted google search, and I’m pretty sure the site I landed on will sell my email address to dozens of C-list porn sites and debt consolidators and maybe Ask Gary, but that’s a small price to pay for one’s true celebrity doppelganger. OMG, what if my real doppelganger is Gary?! Score. Anyway, I uploaded the prettiest picture of myself I could find, one that clearly showed I was not a chubbo or a man. Here were my results in order of “Like, you two could totally be twinsies-ness”:
Yes, that is Judge Freaking Judy. And I thought all those sunscreen ads were mere propaganda.
*All images came from IMDB. Except Condy. She was a gift from wikipedia.
I know there are worse than things in life than having a cold. But the phlegm oozing around my brain has drowned any sense of perspective I could hope to have, and all I feel like doing is whining about how sick I am of being sick. This is the second debilitating cold I’ve had in three weeks. Who gets two colds in a month? My infant immune system is obviously trying to send me a snotty, congested message, and I’m all ears now. Mostly because my other senses are filled with mucus and pressure and the ears are all that’s left. As soon as I can muster the strength to change out of my pajamas, it’s off to the grocery store for some real orange juice (NOT the radioactive liquid sugar substitute Sunny D, Clayton), multivitamins, echinacea, apples, and a People magazine. Because nothing helps put life back into perspective quite like Kate Gosselin and Speidi.