Bugging Out...

What do you call it when your worst fear comes true and you rise above it and save the world?

Because that totally happened to me tonight.

You know how grasshoppers are, like, totally the most freaky little things ever and sometimes they are huge and sometimes they FLY, like a demon from hell, and sometimes they call you really terrible things that hurt your feelings? 

Yes, well, here begins our story.

I grew up in southeast Louisiana.  The swamps, as some would call it.  And while there are many, many, MANY wonderful things about Louisiana, there are also bugs.  And people, let me just make this clear to you now: NO.  Bugs are the bane of my existence (not counting girl-friendly ones such as lady and/or butter, obviously, because omg, so pretty!), and I cannot tell you how many times a roach (barf!) ran up my leg or flew across the room or made me speak in tongues. But I can tell you exactly how I reacted each time I laid eyes on one:  DAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!!!!!  And because my parents are upstanding people, they only rolled their eyes and sighed heavily some of the time before they saved my life.

So, a year ago, when I loaded up my car and moved back home to Louisiana to live On My Own, I was facing one of my biggest fears:  living without anybody to kill the bugs!  It's Louisiana! Of course there are bugs!  My dad-my hero, my knight in shining Raid- is 400 miles away! WHO WILL KILL THE BUGS?! Well, praise the Lord, the homeowner's association of this townhouse complex I'm in has THE most rockin' pest control ever to walk this Earth because in a year of living here?  Not a single bug.  (And yes, I am aware that because I typed that sentence, a roach will crawl across my face tonight while I sleep.  Pray for me.)
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A couple of days ago, I noticed, right outside my front door, a green grasshopper (uuuggghhhaccckk!).  Surprisingly, it was very polite and did not verbally abuse me nor did it attempt to end my life. Southern hospitality, indeed!  I quietly went inside so as not to disturb this newcomer, and I certainly didn't want it to mistake any sudden moves as an act of war. Because if there is one thing I know, it is DO NOT POKE THE LION!

Day 2 morning rolls around and on my way out the front door to walk Gracie girl, it seems The Newcomer had made its way in between my front door and the storm door. Uuuuugggghhhhhh! Nooooo!  Too much, too fast, sir!  I wanted to shoo it, but then there was the chance that it would jump (uggghack!) in my direction and this was just an entirely unaccpetable option unto me.  So I just closed the door again slooowly praying to high heavens that it didn't get smashed because holy pepto, if that doesn't make a girl's stomach turn, I don't know what will.

Here we are at Day 2 evening, out strolling with my little fur baby in the beautiful springtime air. My mind starts to wander to the awesome bowl of strawberries I'm about to make with just a bit of sugar on top, when I pull open the storm door, and that little FREAK SHOW is just chilling on the threshold between storm door and real door.  Waiting for me.  Uuuuuggghhhack!  BAAAARF!  What do you want from me?! 

Gracie is almost through the door when that little sucker jumped (I blacked out.), and Gracie, who is SO not a lady, goes after it with canine teeth flying. Huuggghhhhaaack!  I tried to rush her through the door because omg it's outside it's outside it's outside let's go in!  That thing apparently becomes possessed with everything that is evil and unholy and FLIES INTO MY HOUSE!!!

DAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDD!!!!!

Well, my sweet little baby loves her Mama so much that she launches forward into the living room after it, and throws herself right on that live grenade.  I yelled "Get it!"  Chomp! (BARF!)  My mind starts racing at how this is now going to play out.  "Let her eat it!  No, gross, you're going to have hopper parts everywhere!"  As it turns out, Gracie does not know the difference between "Get it!" and "Kill it and then take it outside!" because of COURSE she let it go and I had to watch it try to figure out what the heck just happened.  And omgomgomgomgomgomg if there is a leg on my floor... (BAAAAARFFFFUUGGGHACCCK!)

It is at this very moment when clarity sets in.  The Felon (breaking and entering = felony) is sitting in stunned stillness. Gracie is staring at it, daring it to move.  I've got to the get this thing out.  It getting eaten is just...well, that's a dark place that my mind cannot go to.  Dreams die there.  I grabbed Gracie's leash and steered her away from her prey, then put her in the bathroom to stay out of the way. (Also, she did not bark even once while in that bathroom, which, anybody who has ever met that animal will tell you, is a miracle in itself.  It's as if she knew she were witnessing something intense.)  I ran to the kitchen to assemble my [secret but awesome name redacted so that you can't steal it] kit.

I put a glass over him then slowly slid a piece of mail or something underneath the cup so he was all up in there.  And y'all, homeboy just walked right up into the cup and was all on the side of it and I could see it through the glass and then I aged 10 years and will now never know what my 30's would've been like.  After a good bit of dry heaving and omgomgomgomg-ing, I made it out the front door.  Well, dude liked the glass so much he wouldn't GET OUT OF IT, so I had to shake it and his creepy exoskeleton clanked against the inside of the glass (THUNK!) on his way out and then I died and came back as an angel to tell the story and probably haunt you some, too. because that would be funny.

All the Rage...

This post is about underwear.

And garage sales. 

And cold.

But mostly, it's about underwear.

Last Saturday, I hauled boxes of my crap stuff over to my friend Annie's house for The Great Purge Garage Sale of 2010.   It was 39 degrees outside.  And I know all you northern folks totally just rolled your eyes because really? 39 degrees?  But, yes, 39 degrees.  I am from the South, and 39 degrees is considered COLD especially during that first cold snap when our humidity sensors haven't acclimated yet.  It was cold, and also, it was pretty early.  I don't get nice until at least 9 am, so I was still making my grumpy faces when I pulled into Annie's driveway.  And now that I've typed all that, I really don't know why that has any relevance at all except that I probably just wanted you to feel sorry for me, in my tired, cold state. Or something.

During the Belongings Exfoliation of 2010, I realize I had this whole big box of underwear that I no longer wear but that was still in really good shape (I had a shopping problem once.  Darn you Victoria's Secret and your Semi-Annual Sale!)(Also, it's totally weird to say your underwear is in good shape, yes?) Now, I myself am not a secondhand underwear buyer. The thought of it FREAKS. ME. OUT.  But hey, some people don't have a problem with it, and also Goodwill sells underwear so it must be ok, right? I texted Annie:

Me: Do people buy underwear at garage sales?
Annie:  Idk, worth a shot if you ask me.

Settled. 

One of our first few customers was a rugged looking dude, who, when I first saw him, I assumed was looking for tools.  Or broken lawnmowers.  Or socks.  Because that's what the rugged dudes come to garage sales for, you know.  He picks up a few things to buy, then spots the box 'o' underwears.

"I don't mean this to be embarrassing," he says. "But what size is the underwear?"

Me thinking: Cha-Ching! 

I told him what sizes most of them were, and after a short discussion about what size jeans his lady friend wears, I told him I didn't think they'd fit her.  He said ok, paid for the other stuff, and went on his way.

Important note to the fellas:  Do NOT buy your lady person underwear at a garage sale.  She can buy it herself at a garage sale if she chooses, but do not, under any circumstances, bring it home to her.  The only exception is if you have detailed instructions where she specifically states, "If you see underwear at a garage sale, please buy it for me."  This is NOT the same as "I need new underwear."  PLEASE make note of this.  You will thank me.

A lady showed up and sat down next to the box and looked at every single pair, like she was shopping that Semi-Annual Sale. She walked away with 11 pair by the time she was done.  Another lady snagged one pair and several more asked about sizes. People, underwear sells at garage sales! I mean, can you get over this?

After we've been out there about 3 hours, Rugged Dude from earlier comes back.  I see him walking up the driveway like he's on a Rugged Dude Mission.  "He's coming back for the underwear," I said to Annie, laughing.  He glanced over everything on the driveway that he already looked at 3 hours earlier and says, "I was on my way home and thought I'd see if y'all put anything else out."

Me:  (thinking) Liar.  You want panties.

About the same time, there was a lady browsing who was sorting through the boxes of clothes, which were directly next to the underwear box.  Rugged Dude is all randomly picking up items and pretending he's so very interested, but his eyes keep darting to the side, waiting for the lady to step away from the unmentionables.  She then starts looking through the underwear, talking about how she is going to get some for her granddaughters. (Grandmothers:  The secondhand-underwear-buying-for-others rule applies to you too.  As in: Don't.)  Rugged Dude's face gets tense and, trying to be all nonchalant, he says, "Oh yeah, that's what I was coming back for, too."

Me:  (thinking) Mmm-hmm.  Told you.

We all sort of chuckled because, oh well, you can't slack when it comes to garage sale bargains, homeboy.  Everybody knows that. Underwear-Buying-Lady (UBL) dumps the whole box on the table and says, "I'll just take them all."  Rugged Dude gets all antsy and asks if she's sure she's buying them all, to which she replies that she is.  He stomps off down the driveway, jumps in his car, and PEELS OUT while speeding off! Seriously! Reckless underwear deprivation driving in full effect y'all.

The three of us looked at each other.

Me: Uhhh....
Annie:  That wasn't normal right?
UBL:  Uh, no.  That wasn't normal.

About 5 minutes later, as we stood chatting and I bagged the stuff she bought, RUGGED DUDE CAME BACK! He pulled his beater up in front of the house and barrels up the driveway with a wad of cash in hand.

Rugged Dude: Ma'am. Are you sure you're going to buy all of them?
UBL: (slightly dumbfounded) Yes, I am.

There is a slight air of What The Heck now floating about.  Rugged Dude looks at me.  I look at Rugged Dude.

RD:  And that's all you have?
Me:  Yes, that was it.
RD:  I'll give you $10 for the whole box!

Dude.  I can't make this stuff up.

Me: ......
Annie: ......
UBL: ......
Me thinking: ......
Me:  I'm sorry, but I already sold them to her.

*Tension*

He wheels around and storms back down the driveway in an underwear fueld rage, and again, peels out.  Now help me understand this:  Does the peeling out help you cope in some way?  Because it's not like I'm about to chase you down the street and change my mind because you were clearly upset enough to PEEL OUT AT A GARAGE SALE!

And y'all, it's not even over!  He drove by TWO MORE TIMES glaring at us.  Freak me out, why don't ya?  The second time he drove by, the Underwear Buying Lady was gone, and since I'm pretty sure that's who he was looking for, that was the end of it.

Moral of the story:  Let Goodwill take care of the underwear selling.  

And the title goes here...

Ohhhh how I'm looooving this weather!  Is it beautiful where you are?  Fall has fallen, and I am in low-humidity heaven.  The past month has been a whirlwind of activity, involving visits from out-of-towners and dancing and football games and bumblebee stingers that just left me completely spent. Having fun with people you adore really takes it out of ya. Life is hard when you're having the time of your life, wouldn't you say?  So this was the first weekend of nothing-to-do-ness that I have had in a quite awhile, and I had BIG plans for me and myself. 

First, there was the doing nothing.  Gracie helped me out with that on Friday night, which was greatly appreciated.  It can be a big task to take on by yourself, but thankfully, my pupster was right by me, helping me carry that burden. I don't even remember Saturday morning.  It was a blur of lazy and nap until about 1 or so.  Doesn't that sound like the most fantastic day ever so far?  I even had on my favorite sweatshirt!

We spent a couple of hours at the dog park that afternoon and made some really wonderful doggy/people friends.  This gorgeous yellow lab showed up and her people brought her into the small dog park which had me all kinds of irritated and ready to offended because hello?! SMALL dog?!  Well, the universe checked me right quick because this was the sweetest, most harmless giant dog I'd ever met.  Gracie pranced her sassy self right into the middle of the park and bark bark barked her head off, desperately trying to get this lab's attention, and that polite girl did not even look Gracie's way.  Gracie is terrified of any and all dogs so this act of bravery was new to me, but I suspect she was showing off for Ernest the Pomhuahua because really, wouldn't you do the same?  By the end of our visit, Gracie and Lady the lab were BFF, bonded by their mutual fear of each other and everything else. 

Something about lazy days at the dog park make me want to go to the grocery store to get food for dinner.  Or maybe it's the whole not grocery shopping for like 2 weeks so there's nothing in the pantry except for a jar of salsa and a can of butter beans that makes me want to go to the store, I don't know.  I was totally gross, of course, after spending hours in the wind and dirt and grass, hugging on dogs of different shapes and sizes and political backgrounds, and really, I just had no business being seen by the public eye.  But man, Whole Foods has some reeeeally good egg salad that sounds perfect right about now.  So I hopped in the car with the dirty, grassy workout clothes, and the eyebrows that hadn't been tended to in 2 5 days because I was just going to run in and run out right? Right.

Ladies.  Here is what I need you to help me understand:  Where is it written in the laws of the cosmos, that when you are wearing a FLUORESCENT PURPLE scrunchy from when you were 15 AND rocking some 5 7 day old eybrows, you are guaranteed to see the most beautiful man that has ever crossed your dirty dog park covered path?  This dude could only be described as smokin' yo, and all I wanted to do was yell "WHY ARE YOU HERE TODAY OF ALL DAYS?!?!"  Because you just know that when you are looking all kinds of  "wow, my hair is so shiny today", and "oh my gosh, have you ever even seen a backside look so fantastic in a pair of jeans?" and "no, of course I don't smell like Ajax.  Nothing but vanilla over here!", you will not see a single soul other than a 90 year old who can't see anyway, gay men, or your brother.  I mean, this is just a fact right? Sigh.

Stupid egg salad.

Some things....

What the heck is up with this blogging brain of mine, is what I want to know?  I'll be walking along all day with random thoughts and thinkings popping into my head followed by thoughts of, "I'm going to blog that!"  Then when it comes time to sit here and tell you all about it, my brain gets all stage frighty and runs and hides behind it's mom's skirt.  So, maybe if you guys all look away for a minute and pretend you're not really listening, brain will come around...

Anyway, some things for us to go over:

Numero Uno:

I witnessed a hit and run accident a few days ago.  It literally happened one car up and to the left of me.  Craziest thing ever.  I was in the loooong line of traffic that happens on this particular street after work, and this jackass speeds out of a gas station parking lot 2 cars ahead of me on the right, and PLOWS into this white car that was oncoming from the other direction. The jerk looked over his shoulder, then just drove on.  I tried to see his license plate, but my windows were all foggy and gross (Louisiana humidity. Barf.), so I did exactly what any red-blooded American who watches Jack Bauer would do.  I went after him. (Disclaimer:  I have never actually watched Jack Bauer, but if you live anywhere in the US and know anybody who does watch him, it's really like you know him personally.  Am I right?)  So in this completely undramatic and responsible move, I executed what could quite possibly be the world's most awkward U-turn and sped after the perp at the legal speed limit.  Are you intimidated by my crime fighting ways yet?  He made a left-hand turn into a neighborhood, and he was gone. Sigh. I went back to the scene of the crime and waited with the girl in the white car (she was not hurt thankfully) and some other witnesses so that I could give my statement to the police. (Is it me or are most law enforcers REALLY short? I dated one so I'm allowed to say that.) The end.

Numero Dos:

There is something untoward going on in the botanicals in front of my townhouse.  The walkway between the townhouses is lined with beautiful crepe myrtles and azalea bushes, and there are a few dove gangs that live in the trees. But y'all, as sweet as doves are, can I just tell you, they are DUMB.  I mean straight up stupid. I thought it was just the one because I would go outside and he refused to fly and would just walk about all weird, and really, it just looked like a dodo bird from a cartoon. Feathers all askew on his head and whatnot.  One day, it got startled by Gracie, and he and a friend took of flying and, don't you know he flew right into the overhang of someone's porch. He was fine, but really?  It's not like it was an invisible house. I just assumed he was a special dove, if you follow, and I love him just as he is. 

Well, (here comes the point) a couple of weeks ago, I noticed several feathers floating around the area.  Nothing noteworthy but I always notice feathers because as some of you might remember, I am part bird.  Then, I noticed sad, little broken eggs almost daily.  At that point, I figured there was a snake or something frequenting the nests of the Dodoves for some protein snacks.  I get that.  I am one with nature and whatever so as sad as the broken little eggs were, circle of life and all that.  Well, then the feathers were coming in greater numbers, and I realized, oh snap, someone is now after the Dodoves themselves!  (I suspect the cats.) On one such day, there was clearly signs of a struggle.  Like a feather pillow exploded.  It was tragic, and I had to alter Gracie's usual business route for fear of finding the bird body. (barf!) But now, NOW, it seems whoever is responsible, is getting more and more bold.  Yesterday, there were feather tufts almost ON MY FRONT WALK.  Not entirely, but close enough, and they were tufty enough that I managed to convince myself that it was the actual bird's head (I'm sorry. Barf with me will you.), and that, my friends, is a dark place to be.  It really was just feathers, but let me just make one thing clear to you all now:  If I, ever in this lifetime, walk out my front door, and there is a bird head/body (barf!) on my front walk....well, I just don't even know how to finish that sentence.  I know it will somehow involved Jack Bauer.

The end.

Zen....

Imagine with me, if you will, your happy place.  Where your mind goes when it wants to be relieved of all the stresses of the day.  Now close your eyes for a moment.  Imagine yourself in a warm, comfortable bed.  All by yourself so no covers are being stolen.  No snoring is disrupting your slumber. No alarm clock to go off in just a few hours.  The night is yours to sleep until you're finished. Your head has found that perfect spot on the pillow which is now cradling your neck in full support of your relaxation.  The temperature in the room has found that delicate balance between hot and cold allowing you to sink into that cozy place of wonderful, restful sleep. Now, take a deep breath, and surrender yourself to this healing cocoon of serenity.

And when you think it is impossible for yourself to be sleeping any more soundly...

BANG! BANG! BANG! THUD! THUD! BANG! THUD! BANG! BANG! THUD! BANG! BANG!

Guess whose stupid neighbors got a new roof today?  Guess who lives in a townhouse that is in the unit directly next door and connected to the new roof neighbors?  Guess who was so close to the roofing action that she literally could have reached out her bedroom window and stolen the stupid ladder?  Guess where early morning banging roofers falls on my Are You Freaking Kidding Me?! pet peeve list?

Y'all need to understand something very critical here.  I am not, nor will I ever be, a morning person.  It's just a biological (physiological?) fact of my life, one which I have made peace with. Add to that the fact that I am no stranger to insomnia, and, well, you've just got yourself one grumpy little chicken, mister.

Ugh, this morning was this fantastic blend of cotton and temperature and relaxation and soundness of sleep, then BAM!  The Bangers Boys report to work.  I woke up groggily thinking someone was banging on my door, but as the fog wore off, I recognized the sound.  The awful, cranky-inducing sound.  Without even picking my head off the pillow, I reached to the window and flipped one of the slats on the blinds.  There it was.  The Ladder. Noooooooooooooooooo!  And then I saw two men climbing the ladder with all kinds of supplies, and all I could think was, "Poor guys had no idea they were going to die at the hands of an unrested woman today."

Gracie even poked her little head up and looked at me all blinky-eyed like "What the....?"

I know, kiddo.  I know.

And there's not a darn thing we could do, but lay there and listen to the banging.  And the thudding.  And the nailing.  And the Spanish.  As I laid there, I thought of all the ways I could get back at the neighbors for being so rude.  But I mean, seriously, they have to get their new roof right?  It's not their fault roofing just happens to be annoying and stupid and LOUD.  And I can't get mad at the roofer dudes because they're just trying to get a paycheck.  Sigh. 

HOWEVER, that was their volume card for the year.  No more!  If at any point in the next year, I am woken up by loud noises from neighbor on the left, I am stealing their ladder.

The end.

Getting better....

I just got the word that Grandma is doing better.  She did have a minor stroke but is now back to being awake and alert, so thank you Lord for that.  My dad said that she should be released in a couple of days so she can get back to home to her babies (the kitty cats).  Whew! 

I have some other stuff to tell you guys, like how I accidentally ate a bad potato (what is UP with potatoes these days, man?) and something else that I can't exactly remember at the time being but will inevitably pop back into my head while I'm driving and nowhere near a computer (it totally happens to you too right?).  But it'll have to wait a bit, because I can't talk right now because I have to finish packing up this destruction of a room I'm in.  Why am I packing?  Because I'm moving tomorrow.  Did I not tell you that?  Wow, okay yeah, we definitely have some stuff to talk about.  For now, I'm going to go down a handful of ibuprofen (cuz this headache is RAGING yo) and then it's pack city.  But we'll talk later.  Promise.

Jenny out.

***OH WAIT!!!! I remember what the other thing was!  But I'm not telling you now because I am all about anticipation and suspense and DRAMA!  Do you want a hint though?  I'll give you a hint.  It's about a movie star.  And that I saw him.  Up close and personal.  From about 15 feet away.  Chew on THAT for a bit why don't ya?  (Also, it wasn't Brad Pitt so you can calm down. Nor was it Clooney so we can just ahead and make our peace with that disappointment now.)  Ugh, ok, my head is pissed.  Gotta got get that ibuprofen now.  Later.***

EDIT: I am fully aware that Brad Pitt is looking especially goat-like these days, and honestly he's never really rocked my world anyway, even in the Thelma & Louise days, but it was the first name that popped in my head.  I just though we should clear that up.  Thank you for your time.

Not good....

My grandma on my dad's side has been in and out of the hospital lately, most recently from a rough bout of pneumonia I believe.  I'm not sure all of the details, but she was released on Monday.  Apparently, she was staying at a friend's house for whatever reason, and as of this evening, she was rushed back to the hospital because she became unresponsive.  She was getting a brain scan tonight I think so as of now it's just a waiting game to hear what's going on.

She lives in Ohio while I grew up in the South.  And although we don't see each other often, we are extremely close.  I know she's been sick, but to hear it be this serious pretty much freaks me out.  If you don't mind, would you say some prayers for my Grandma tonight?  I'm not ready to bear with the thought that she might not be with us much longer, so I'm praying hard for her to come out of this one ok.

Back up off...

Okay, I am a total chick.  Which means, of course, that I don't do bugs.  At all.  Unless it's of the lady or roly poly variety.  Or a butterfly, but I mean duh, did I really need to say that?  But other than that, no, get them away from me and away from you and away from anywhere that I'm going to be ever in my life ever please and thank you.

Just because I don't like them, doesn't entirely mean I'm scared of ALL of them.  I'm scared of ALOT of them, but not ALL.  Like spiders for example.  (Look, I'm sorry.  I know half of you just started squealing and covering your ears and maybe even dry heaving.  But it is important that we talk about it right now ok?  I will pay for your therapy.  You're fine.)  Spiders don't usually bug me (ha! pun!) too much.  As long as it can respect my personal bubble and it isn't over what normal standard spider size should be (1 mm), then we'll be alright.

Point:  There has been a spider on my ceiling for the past several days.  I don't even know how long it has been honestly because he has just been that nice of a roomguest.  He has been waaaay over there along the edge on the ceiling and that's where he stays.  He wanders of to this other corner that is a bit closer to me, but I forgive him because he's proven himself to be trustworthy.

Important sidenote:  I know you're probably wondering why I'm just letting this spider roam around freely and all. I understand your point of view.  But the thing is?  He's on the ceiling.  And I'm not ceiling height, which means I can't reach him.  And I can't tell by looking at the little sucker that he's a jumper.  He just is.  I have a spidey sense (PUN!) about things like this.  If I mess with him, the odds of him ending up ON ME are greatly increased, and well, that's just not something I'm willing to live with.  So he's been here on probation.

Until right now, this very minute, real time, as it's happening, live.

He's almost directly over my bed.  And people, please hear me when I say, NO!  Not ok! Personal space VIOLATED!!!  I mean check out how rude this guy is:

What. Do. I. Do?!?!  I'm convinced he's moving closer to me.  Like I haven't seen him move or anything, but I'm pretty sure he's crittering closer to me when I look away.  Oh gag y'all.  We were doing just fine when he was way over there on the wall where I never go (His name is Hank btw).  Oooooooh, he moved.  Okay.  Oh man, and he's smart too!  He's just enough behind the fan blades that I can't throw anything.  Oh oh oh!  I have one of those computer air duster thingys.  I could shoot that air at him and maybe he'll fall (or jump! BARF!)

Okay, I gotta do something here.  I will not sleep knowing he is over my bed watching me with all those eyes.  EWWWW GAG OMG WHY DID I EVEN SAY THAT?!  *HEAVE*  I'm doing this.  Hang tight...please don't go anywhere. I need you. 

Hold please.....

Um.

You guys?

I hit him with the broom as a last resort.  And, uh, well, now I don't know where he is.  Remember that I told you he was awfully close to the bed?  You don't think he's on my bed right?  I mean, I shook out the sheets and pillows a bit and brushed my hair and changed my shirt.  So surely he's not in my bed/hair right?  Right.  Wait, I'm right, right?  You know, now that I think about it, the couch in the living room all the way at the other end of the house is pretty comfortable.  Plus spiders are allergic to couches right?  Yeah I'm pretty sure I read that in my imagination that one time.  So I'm good.

Addendum:

I have good news and bad news.

The good news:  I found it, him, Hank, whatever.

The bad news:

Yes, that is my cup of water.

Let's never speak of this again.

I Know Who Killed Me....

It was a potato.  A mean, angry, merciless red spud that did me in.  I will warn you that this particular story might be a little on the EWWW side, and I am sorry to share such horrible things with you, but I can't get through this alone.

Let me just say up front, to eliminate any confusion later, I love potatoes. L-O-V-E them.  Thanks to their consistent yumminess, mixed with their cheapness and ability to keep me full, they are a staple in my (often daily) diet.

So.  Last night, I wanted to make some cheese potatoes. (Boil some red potatoes, drain, butter, melt cheese slices on top, yum, trust.)  While choosing my potatoes from the Potato Bowl, I noticed one of them had this (GROSS ALERT!) black, clustery gross thing happening on it.

Me:  EWWWWW!  I think this one has eggs on it!  Or is it just foaming?

Mom:  I think it's foam.

Me:  Touch it.

She totally touched it!  Blech!  And lucky for her, it was foam, because y'all, what if it had been foamy EGGS?!  GAG!

Mom:  It's fine.  Just rinse it off.

(Ok, keep in mind that my senses were all hypersensitive from being all grossed out from the foam and all, plus mom was still in egg mode.)  I rinsed the potato and grabbed a towel to make sure the foam was all gone.  As soon as I put even the slightest pressure on that spot on the potato to dry it, my finger breaks right through the potato into it's mushy rotten spot and white, starchy potato guts came shooting out at me.  My response? Scream like a little girl, throw that potato, and RUN!  My mom's response?  Scream like a grown up and RUN!  She took off down the hall, and after I recovered from my near fatal laughing hysteria, I found her hiding in my bedroom afflicted with the very same hysteria. 

Apparently she thought a critter of some kind jumped out at me in defense of the hypothetical eggs, while I just heard that awful popping noise of the exploding potato.  Oh my gosh, it was just gross, although it's good to know where our Fight or Flight response stands.  Flight all the way.

Rock it out...

March 2009

So I've been in Louisiana the past few days.  Long story that I'll tell you another time, but the main idea is I'm staying with my BFF, Shara, and her hubs, George, back in LA where I grew up.  Some mutual friends (Amanda and TJ) of all of ours live just down the street or around the corner or something, so tonight they came over for dinner to visit before I head back to the TX. George made some rocking cheeseburgers, and Shara made yummy brownies for dessert. (win-win!) 

After a dinner of magic cheeseburgers, we decided to play some Guitar Hero.  Well, I use "we" as a very loose term.  Technically, Shara decided we should play Guitar Hero, because Amanda and I chose to make Shara choose the game.  I've only played Guitar Hero (actually, it was Rock Band) once before in my life, and truly? It changed me.  Forever.  (Please see pic above.)  I was visiting friends in Virginia Beach and Kris (left) had just gotten it for her birthday.  Needless to say, we represented.  No one has every committed themselves to Rock Band the way we did that weekend.  We were golden.

 

This is exactly why this girl is my friend for life. 

So tonight when Shara mentioned Guitar Hero, I was in.  Sure, I've played this before.  It's just like Rock Band, and I think we can all agree that I was created to play Rock Band.  Bring. It On.

First up was The Joke by The Steve Miller Band, and surprisingly, these lovely group of people suggested I sing. Me. Sing.  This is amazing for 3 reasons: (1) I am not good. At all. (2) Shara regularly tells me to not sing, which I regularly IGNORE, and (3) I was not allowed to sing during above mentioned Rock Band party (see reason #1). So getting the mic this go around was the highlight of my life.  And let me just tell you...I. Nailed. It.  96% my friends! 96!!!  I mean, who even does that?  That means I hit 96% of the notes. What that means exactly, I have no idea, but I know it's good even if my voice isn't!  To all the haters, I have one thing to say:  Boo. Yah.

Since there were 5 of us and only 3 instruments, after each song, we rotated right.  Next up for this rock star? The drums.  You guys?  I LOOOOVE the drums.  Love them with my whole heart and soul.  It has been a lifelong dream to play.  So Bon Jovi kicks on and the band plays and I kid you not, within like 4 lines of the song, the band "loses" thanks to who? The drummer.  Which is me. Gah.  Okay, let's try one more time.  Here comes Bon Jovi.  Shara is rocking the guitar. Amanda is singing her heart out.  Drums kick in.  Fail.  TWICE!  The game gave up on me (Hi Kathryn!). I slowly slid that drum set right back over to TJ who was owning it before I got my hands on it.  They finished it in style.

On the Road Again by Willie Nelson.  Instruments move to the right so I'm on guitar.  I got this.  I can do guitar.  Observe:

Music kicks in. Drummer is drumming.  I start what I believe is about to be one amazing performance.  I'm pushing red, green, red, green, yellow...and nothing is happening.  Silence from the guitar.  George says "You gotta strum Jenny!"  Oh right.  This little bar thing over here.  So I have to do one thing with my left hand, and something else entirely with my right?  Not my strongest quality.  So I'm strumming and hitting buttons and things are just going downhill fast, when all of a sudden - FAIL.  Geez Guitar Hero, is there no learning curve here or what?  When the whole game gives up because of your lacking button pushing strumming skills, it's just not good.

Dude, whatever.  Where are those dessert brownies?  The brownies never give up on you.  And you know what?  I will never give up on the brownies.

Stupid, Annoying Bones....

I would just like to say that if I see the trailer for The Lovely Bones one more time, something bad is going to happen.  I mean, seriously?  Is every. single. commercial break. really necessary?  After a certain point, I just cannot be held accountable for my actions. 

That is all.

B is for Bah!...and also Buzzkill...

Disclaimer:  The following post could be a hazardous to your positive mood.  Rantings and grumpy feelings are forecast.  You've been warned.

Today is stupid.  The past week has been just one emotional crapfest, and honestly, I would like it all to stop please.  I would like to not have to concern myself with things of a financial nature, and I would like to undo all of the dumb spending mistakes I have made in the past, oh, I don't know, ten years or so.  Why the heck couldn't I have learned these lessons right out of the gate?  Because seriously, my first car came with the hefty note of $165.90 a month, and I spent ALOT of time thinking that was just going to break the bank.  Not even close. Fortunately, I had a good friend who said "pay $20 extra a month toward principal and you'll pay it off like a year sooner."  The car crapped out completely before it was ever paid off, but thankfully, that extra $20 a month I was sending lessened the blow of being in the red on a car that could not be fixed.  I wish I had known then that I had more money than I realized and probably could've been doubling my payments avoiding this whole upside down situation in the first place.  But whatever, I'm totally getting off topic.  The point of all that rambling is basically if I had known then what I'd know now, this whole layoff would probably be a heck of a lot less agonizing.  I'm fast approaching 30, and I'm nowhere close to where I hoped I would be from a stability standpoint.  That sucks.

Thanksgiving came and went with a lot more stress and anxiety than I had anticipated.  There were some truly awesome aspects of it, such as my brother being able to be there rounding out "the four of us" like it should be.  Or getting to spend time with my mom's sister's husband's mom (grandma-in-law?).  She is one bad@ss senior is all I'm saying.  And she brought some rocking good dip.  That pretty much makes you a winner in my book.  But for some reason, with all the things to be thankful for and all the wonderful company, I was completely unsettled. Even Gracie spent every chance she got racing for the front door. My anxiety goes through the roof when I'm at that house, and I can't entirely pinpoint why.   I suspect it has to do with the whole Katrina thing, and this is the house we evacuated to and maybe all that comes out.  I don't know. 

And now I'm pup nurse to my sweet lil Gracie girl.  She had the knee surgery on Monday, and all went really well.  She came home yesterday afternoon and has been cooped up in her cozy kennel since then.  She gets bathroom breaks, and I occasionally let her out to lay next to me on the floor in my room.  There was a major cone of shame issue last night when she started spending a lot of time going after those stitches.  So at about 8:30 last night after I was showered and in my jammies, I had to go out and find a cone to keep her from messing up the incision.  I wanted a specific comfy cone so she would be able to sleep on it.  Petco fail.  Petsmart fail.  So I settled for the little inflatable donut thing.  Have you seen those?  They're pretty cool.  Anyway, got it home...too small.  GAH!  It was too late at that point to go find another one so I took my chances that she would sleep and not chew overnight.  She chewed.  So now she has this huge hematoma type thing on her knee which vet says is not normal.  So I have to take her back in to see him in the morning.  Finally found the comfy cone I was looking for today, but when I got it home, it was too big and she pulled it right off. GRRR!!!  I managed to make the inflatable one work and she looked fairly comfy in it, but she can get around it to her stitches.  Oh geez, is this some joke?!  So again, last minute trek out right before closing time to find a comfy cone size small.  I think it fits okay, but I keep watching her making sure she's breathing and that it's not too tight. But that poor pup is MISERABLE. 

I just need everything to stop.  For just a bit.  Until I can recharge.  I need to not think about money and how I'm going to support myself.  I need to not worry about getting a job.  I need my dog to be happy and healthy and not have to suffer like this.  I need to feel settled and in place and not have this weight of uncertainty on me every. single. second.  I need sleep. 

Post Traumatic Spider Disorder...

So I'm not scared of spiders. Never have been. I think tarantulas are cool. I admit I saw this tiny bit of Arachnophobia which messed me up pretty good for a short while, but lately all has been well.

Until this morning...

I grabbed my face wash out of the shower and right by the drain, I swear to you, was the biggest spider ever created. Looked like a hubcap. Luckily, I reacted coolly and calmly, and by coolly and calmly, I mean I screamed bloody murder. Then I got that feeling. You know the one where all your blood turns to ice and you get goosebumps all over and realize you now have to move? Yeah that one.

Okay think fast! Turn on the faucet and try not to hurl in the tub. My fast thinking and not hurling triggered his spidey sense, and he ran back down into the drain. GROSS! So I kicked the faucet on high and let it run for a long time. Washed that horror right down the drain. Still completely freaked out, but, proud of my awesome mutant spider drowning skills, I went back to cleaning the living room.

Then it hit me...That thing was one of those creepy water spiders. He was much too quick to dive back in the drain. That little effer is probably just chilling under the sink plug waiting for it to quit raining. So I snuck back in there to peek in the tub.

Dude. That thing had climbed back out of the drain and was all chilling with his crazy legs on top of the drain plug drying out. Cue "that feeling." I may or not have blacked out. I cannot be sure. I cranked the faucet up again and he just sort of flinched with his omgsocreepiness. Oh no sir. This calls for more than lame shower pressure.
I filled a pitcher in the kitchen (which is totally hard to do when you're all shaking and goosebumpy and oh so nauseous from the sci fi action) to completely wash him down the drain. HOT water! Oh yeah. Dumped it in there and he just sort of gross spider wrinkled up and was not giving up his grip on the drain plug. AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!! (Sorry if you're reading this Shell.) OMGOMGOMG!!! More pitcher water! OMG, now he's like wedged between plug and tub. (This is EXACTLY how Xanax was developed you guys.)

OMG, okay think! Dawn! Dawn cuts the grease, and I sho nuff need somebody to do some cutting! Dawn dish soap in the pitcher water, and he finally gave it up and was washed down the drain. Now, because my short term memory is heightened in this sort of trauma, I know not to be fooled by the whole oh he's gone down the drain act. I dumped at least 7 more pitchers of water down along with the running faucet. And for good measure? I used a broom to close the drain. Yeah! Take that!

So now does anybody mind if I borrow their shower? I can't open the drain in mine.

Good morning to me...

I feel the need to warn you that the following story is pretty gross, but gosh darnit, it's funny so I have to share...

Gracie is part garbage disposal. The girl will eat just about anything you put in front of her. I'm talking dog food, people food, coasters, cigarettes, lizards, your favorite (and only) pair of work shoes... She'll eat it all. For example, as I write this she is laying on floor next to me about to chow down on my fave pj pants that I left on the floor. Surprisingly enough, as random as the things are that she eats, the only thing she really can't stomach is chicken. Don't get me wrong. The girl LOOOOVES to get a piece of chicken from the table, but her poor little tummy just cannot handle it. You can always tell when Gracie has had chicken by the disaster that happens the following morning. Because she's pomeranian this means her backside is all fur and fluff. It's really cute. Unless she's had chicken. Then the evidence stays with her on all that fur and fluff. It's SO gross, I know.

Well, apparently somebody snuck her some chicken yesterday. Normally, she sleeps in my parents' room, but because I spent the night she stayed out in the living room on the couch with me. Apparently, the chicken kicked in sometime in the middle of the night, because when mom woke up, she said it was all the way down the hall into the living room and under my dad's desk. When Gracie trotted up to her, Mom said it was ALL over her backside. An absolute mess.

This is where I tell you that Gracie's favorite place to sit when someone is laying (or sleeping) on the couch is right on top of their head. Guess who was sleeping on the couch while this happened? Yup. After all the business in the hall and living room and all in her fur, my sweet little girl hopped right back up on the couch to go back to sleep. On my head.

Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase crappy morning huh?