I've been thinking a lot about relationships lately. I think they need to somehow click, to organically come together and grow. You can't force them; they just happen. I think that's why they say that you just KNOW when you meet that person. Something clicks, doesn't it? You can't put your finger on it, but it just feels right.
I remember the night I met K, we were out at a friend's birthday party and wound up standing outside in the rain chain smoking and talking about so many things. And with each part of our conversation, it just seemed to connect us even more. By the end of our several hour chat, we were running around downtown holding hands and skipping, yelling that we were getting married tomorrow and everyone was invited. Yes, skipping. And yes, there was a bit of alcohol involved. But the point is that it was unlike both of us to be that comfortable so instantly. And I think in order for it to get to that point, we both just FELT that it was right. It wasn't a lot of work, it just fell into place easily. We both wanted the same things, the timing was right for both of us, we were healed from our past relationships and ready to move forward.
But what if the timing isn't right?
I had a lot of these experiences while I was dating before I met K. The dark ages, I like to call them. I met some very nice guys-- some smart, some sweet, some funny... but for some reason, it just didn't work with any of them. Something was always off, and you could feel it. In some instances, I tried to force it because I wanted it to work so badly, but life just doesn't work that way. Ironically, once I stopped trying so hard and decided to let go, be single and have fun with my friends, I met K.
So that begs the question... do we really have any control over who we fall in love with? And even who we are friends with?
I think there is certainly a degree of effort and care put into these relationships to keep them alive, but do we really have control over the outcome?
I have friends from college who I see MAYBE once every couple of years. But when we talk, it's like no time has passed. We still love each other the way we did when we hung out daily. And sure, the dynamic shifts a bit, but our relationships are still strong.
So why do some relationships survive that kind of dynamic shift, and others don't?
I honestly think you just can't force any kind of relationship. The healthy ones, both romantic and platonic, fall into place naturally. And it's a fact of life that circumstances change, your priorities shift, that dynamics change and people ebb and flow in and out of your immediate center depending on time, place, fate. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, friendships fall in and out of love with you.
But maybe it has nothing to do with us. Maybe it's all a part of a higher universal principal that brings people together. I do know one thing for sure, I am so incredibly thankful to have the people in my life that I do, and I definitely believe that no matter the circumstances or how happy or challenging your time is while you're with them, people are brought into your life (and leave an impact) for a reason.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
My Facebook Hiatus: Post-Experiment Wrapup
Two full weeks, people. That is how long I managed to stay off of the crack rock that is facebook. Yesterday I logged back on to survey the damage, and though 2 of my friends got engaged since I've been on, (I know, unbelievable right?!) I survived.
Here is the post-experiment wrap up.
Conclusions:
1.) Twitter is the poor man's facebook. As much as I've enjoyed getting to know the twit machine, and I'm having fun with it, tweets from celebrities about their albums coming out and their torpedos of truth just aren't as exciting as talking to your actual friends on the FB. It's helped with the withdrawls though.
2.) I have had MUCH more meaningful conversations with people since I've been off of the crack. I think it creates a false sense of closeness with the people on your friends list, and though it's great to be able to just drop them a line now and again and ask how they are, are you really having a connection? I found that I was not. In the 2 weeks I was off of facebook, I scheduled my friend Em to come visit us out here (yay!) and I also scheduled a trip to go visit my bestie from college. I talked on the phone to another girlfriend from HS for a few hours, talked to my parents, and I found that I was really listening a lot better, rather than relying on facebook posts to update me on their statuses in life.
3.) My head stopped spinning. I think this is more of a multi-tasker problem than just a fb problem, but when you have the page open all day as I do, you're getting live feeds of what people are eating for lunch, that they're mad their cars didn't start in the morning, they don't really feel good today, and how many times they've used the bathroom today. Too much information is just that... too much.
4.) I did manage to be absent while this status comment form change has occurred (now you just hit enter to post on someone's wall? Danger zone.) And what is this "Polls" thing all about? I guess I'm not in on the inside track with that. BUT. I still feel good about what I took away from my hiatus. Go ahead, Mark Zuckerberg, try to sabotage my plans. You can't lure me in with your page redesigns and quirky updates. Okay, maybe you can.
So I went back to the FB yesterday and found that I actually only had 5 private messages, 1 friend request, and 7 comments. Not too shabby. I figured it would be an all day affair, trying to damage control what I had missed out on. But honestly, I'm happy with the hiatus. I think I'll go back to it, but only in baby steps. Once a day to start. Just a little taste of the crack pipe doesn't hurt, right? Or does it?
Here is the post-experiment wrap up.
Conclusions:
1.) Twitter is the poor man's facebook. As much as I've enjoyed getting to know the twit machine, and I'm having fun with it, tweets from celebrities about their albums coming out and their torpedos of truth just aren't as exciting as talking to your actual friends on the FB. It's helped with the withdrawls though.
2.) I have had MUCH more meaningful conversations with people since I've been off of the crack. I think it creates a false sense of closeness with the people on your friends list, and though it's great to be able to just drop them a line now and again and ask how they are, are you really having a connection? I found that I was not. In the 2 weeks I was off of facebook, I scheduled my friend Em to come visit us out here (yay!) and I also scheduled a trip to go visit my bestie from college. I talked on the phone to another girlfriend from HS for a few hours, talked to my parents, and I found that I was really listening a lot better, rather than relying on facebook posts to update me on their statuses in life.
3.) My head stopped spinning. I think this is more of a multi-tasker problem than just a fb problem, but when you have the page open all day as I do, you're getting live feeds of what people are eating for lunch, that they're mad their cars didn't start in the morning, they don't really feel good today, and how many times they've used the bathroom today. Too much information is just that... too much.
4.) I did manage to be absent while this status comment form change has occurred (now you just hit enter to post on someone's wall? Danger zone.) And what is this "Polls" thing all about? I guess I'm not in on the inside track with that. BUT. I still feel good about what I took away from my hiatus. Go ahead, Mark Zuckerberg, try to sabotage my plans. You can't lure me in with your page redesigns and quirky updates. Okay, maybe you can.
So I went back to the FB yesterday and found that I actually only had 5 private messages, 1 friend request, and 7 comments. Not too shabby. I figured it would be an all day affair, trying to damage control what I had missed out on. But honestly, I'm happy with the hiatus. I think I'll go back to it, but only in baby steps. Once a day to start. Just a little taste of the crack pipe doesn't hurt, right? Or does it?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Love and Wheel Bearings
K and I have had a REALLY busy few weeks. It's been really stressful on both of us, and we've been running around like chickens with our heads cut off. But let me tell you that I have never in my life felt as lucky and as loved as I do today.
We got home last night at 10:30 from his Dad's house, where we were helping him pack up some things and move out of his house. We both forgot that my car was in shambles in the garage, and I was starting a yoga class with my sister Monday nights. We were both absolutely exhausted. I told him it was okay, that I was sure my sister would be okay to cancel. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep on the couch as soon as I layed down.
I woke up at 2:38am and heard banging coming from the garage. I was like... what is going on down there? I went downstairs and found K finishing up the wheel bearing on my car. He had to leave the house at 5am to get to work on time, yet he stayed up all night fixing my car so I wouldn't be stranded. I never would have let him stay down there if I hadn't fallen asleep--he definitely should have been sleeping before work. But never in my life have I felt so grateful and loved that he would do that for me.
I think sometimes it's the little things in relationships that let each other know you care about them--this was definitely one of those. When things get stressful in life, (and they inevitably do) I so strongly appreciate having him to turn to and support me. Now excuse me while I go back to etching hearts into my Trapper Keeper.
We got home last night at 10:30 from his Dad's house, where we were helping him pack up some things and move out of his house. We both forgot that my car was in shambles in the garage, and I was starting a yoga class with my sister Monday nights. We were both absolutely exhausted. I told him it was okay, that I was sure my sister would be okay to cancel. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep on the couch as soon as I layed down.
I woke up at 2:38am and heard banging coming from the garage. I was like... what is going on down there? I went downstairs and found K finishing up the wheel bearing on my car. He had to leave the house at 5am to get to work on time, yet he stayed up all night fixing my car so I wouldn't be stranded. I never would have let him stay down there if I hadn't fallen asleep--he definitely should have been sleeping before work. But never in my life have I felt so grateful and loved that he would do that for me.
I think sometimes it's the little things in relationships that let each other know you care about them--this was definitely one of those. When things get stressful in life, (and they inevitably do) I so strongly appreciate having him to turn to and support me. Now excuse me while I go back to etching hearts into my Trapper Keeper.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Bow Chicka Wow Wowww
Ahh, mating season. My cats are humping each other, the weather is warmer, and people are coming out of hibernation to sniff each other's butts in hopes of finding that special snuggle partner.
What is it about the snow melting that makes you want to run around the block in your birthday suit? It's like you've been holed in at home all winter, and you finally poke your head out of the cave to see that the 17 feet of snow is melting and there's actually grass under it.
I don't know what it is, but it sure affects us all. I don't even think I realize it until I get a little taste of that warmness and suddenly the mirage of daisy dukes and BBQs doesn't seem so far away.
Don't get me wrong, I really do love winter. But it just goes on a LITTLE too long out here in NY. Once March hits, I'm ready to stow the sweaters and bear my midriff like a teeny bopper. (Stop freaking out--I'm totally kidding. I save the leopard halter top for summer.) I feel my mood lift with the season change, and suddenly I realize I've been walking around in a daze for the past four months.
We're not quite there yet, Spring, but I'm anxiously awaiting your arrival. This hot and cold bipolar bullshit is for the birds.
What is it about the snow melting that makes you want to run around the block in your birthday suit? It's like you've been holed in at home all winter, and you finally poke your head out of the cave to see that the 17 feet of snow is melting and there's actually grass under it.
I don't know what it is, but it sure affects us all. I don't even think I realize it until I get a little taste of that warmness and suddenly the mirage of daisy dukes and BBQs doesn't seem so far away.
Don't get me wrong, I really do love winter. But it just goes on a LITTLE too long out here in NY. Once March hits, I'm ready to stow the sweaters and bear my midriff like a teeny bopper. (Stop freaking out--I'm totally kidding. I save the leopard halter top for summer.) I feel my mood lift with the season change, and suddenly I realize I've been walking around in a daze for the past four months.
We're not quite there yet, Spring, but I'm anxiously awaiting your arrival. This hot and cold bipolar bullshit is for the birds.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Severe Violation of the Pillow Fortress
I have spent the last couple of weeks recovering from the injured back, and plotting how to avoid further injury and channel the cats into appropriate sleeping spots so I don't have to perform a double back handspring in order to get out of bed in the morning.
See, here's how it normally goes down. I go to bed laying on my right side, arms stretched out in front of me, left knee raised for added support. I've got Cheer Bear and Heart Po cuddled up, and my water glass on the table next to me in case I wake up parched. All is well in the peaceful world of slumber.
When I wake UP, it's a whole different scenario. I'm paralyzed by three furry weights pinning me to the bed in whatever position I've been unlucky enough to fall asleep in. Generally, my water glass is knocked over, a puddle dripping from the nightstand onto the carpet, telltale paw prints leaving a trail from the glass to the bed. I can't breathe from all of the fur settling in my nose. Gwennie nestles RIGHT up against my left side, Loki snuggles right up in between my legs, and Linus just sprawls out across the entire king sized bed... because he is a giant dog cat and is twice the size of a regular cat.
So last night I got clever. I built myself a pillow fortress against my left side, hoping this would re-route the kitties into sleeping over on K's side. Gwen fell into place like a good kitty right before I drifted off, and I was hopeful for the other two. What I awoke to was nothing short of a severe violation of the Pillow Fortress.
The first thing I noticed was that the pillows from my carefully constructed pillow fortress were thrown on the ground. The second thing I noticed was that Gwennie was nestled sweetly on K's side of the bed still, obeying the outlines of the rules and regulations of the Pillow Treaty. The third thing I became painfully aware of was that I was once again immobilized from my left and right sides. Linus was curled up between my legs in a 17-pound anchor of fur. When I tried to move my legs, he didn't even budge. I had to pull my knee up to my chest and manually move it around him in order to even further assess the situation. When I rolled over onto my back, I felt a puff of fur up around my neck, and realized that Loki had found a way around the pillow fortress... directly onto my main pillow. He was even partially tucked under the fortress. I had to pick him up and move him over to the other side of the bed (no doubt that was awesome for my back) and get out of bed that way. None of the kitties were pleased about this new arrangement.
So what's a girl to do? I have tried everything I can think of to keep the kitties from smothering me into a straight jacket slumber, and I just can't seem to outsmart them. Those scheming rascals. Maybe next time I'll let them have the big bed and I will sleep in one of the TWO OTHER queen sized beds in this house. That seems like a reasonable compromise.
When I wake UP, it's a whole different scenario. I'm paralyzed by three furry weights pinning me to the bed in whatever position I've been unlucky enough to fall asleep in. Generally, my water glass is knocked over, a puddle dripping from the nightstand onto the carpet, telltale paw prints leaving a trail from the glass to the bed. I can't breathe from all of the fur settling in my nose. Gwennie nestles RIGHT up against my left side, Loki snuggles right up in between my legs, and Linus just sprawls out across the entire king sized bed... because he is a giant dog cat and is twice the size of a regular cat.
So last night I got clever. I built myself a pillow fortress against my left side, hoping this would re-route the kitties into sleeping over on K's side. Gwen fell into place like a good kitty right before I drifted off, and I was hopeful for the other two. What I awoke to was nothing short of a severe violation of the Pillow Fortress.
The first thing I noticed was that the pillows from my carefully constructed pillow fortress were thrown on the ground. The second thing I noticed was that Gwennie was nestled sweetly on K's side of the bed still, obeying the outlines of the rules and regulations of the Pillow Treaty. The third thing I became painfully aware of was that I was once again immobilized from my left and right sides. Linus was curled up between my legs in a 17-pound anchor of fur. When I tried to move my legs, he didn't even budge. I had to pull my knee up to my chest and manually move it around him in order to even further assess the situation. When I rolled over onto my back, I felt a puff of fur up around my neck, and realized that Loki had found a way around the pillow fortress... directly onto my main pillow. He was even partially tucked under the fortress. I had to pick him up and move him over to the other side of the bed (no doubt that was awesome for my back) and get out of bed that way. None of the kitties were pleased about this new arrangement.
So what's a girl to do? I have tried everything I can think of to keep the kitties from smothering me into a straight jacket slumber, and I just can't seem to outsmart them. Those scheming rascals. Maybe next time I'll let them have the big bed and I will sleep in one of the TWO OTHER queen sized beds in this house. That seems like a reasonable compromise.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Ladies havin' babies up in the Walmart
If I was locked inside a Walmart all night, here's what I'd do. I'd pitch myself a tent in the camping aisle, get a TV and a bunch of DVDs from the electronics department, fill up a cart with pizza rolls, blow up a Walmart brand aerobed (hey, don't knock it until you've tried it) and have myself a little sleepover. I might even sneak over to the carebear aisle and get myself some friends to watch the movies with me.
Walmart has everything you could need for an overnight venture. Food, blankets, mattresses, tents... even a McDonalds! You could definitely survive a sleepover there--or even the birth of your illegitimate child. Natalie Portman proved this to me last night while I was watching 'Where the Heart Is'. I was impressed at her resourcefulness; she even found a shower hose and took a bath in the sink. Now, would I really WANT to take a bath in the sink at a Walmart? No. (Have you SEEN the people that shop there?) But I guess if you were barefoot and 8.5 months preggo with nowhere else to go since your bf abandoned you in the parking lot, it would be an option.
Now, the trouble comes in that most Walmarts these days are 24 hours. Maybe they invoked this policy once they saw the movie. They didn't want no ladies havin' babies up in that motha. But if you were lucky enough to find one that closes at 9, you'd be golden.
Another thing I would do is go over to the electronics department, make all the TVs go to the same channel and play Mario Kart on all 17 of them. I want to see the Princess and the Toad larger than life. And those banana peels they throw.
I would also have myself a shopping cart race. Now, the Walmart by us has just graced us with brand new carts. I never realized what a luxury it is before, but now I look forward to going there solely for the smoothness of their cart experience. So I'd line one up by the McDonalds, run as fast as I could, then jump in it and speed down the aisle right in front, past the eye exam place. Hopefully if I went fast enough, I would end up crashing into the hair salon.
Oh, and I'd DEFINITELY take one of those electronic scooter deals for the handicapped people around the store while I did my activities. I have been dying to try one of those puppies out.
You could even protect yourself from inside a Walmart. Just break into the gun case and get yourself a pink hello kitty rifle to nestle under your Walmart brand aerobed. This would be great, because once someone came into the store and tried to rob you of all your carebears and pizza rolls, you'd have a way of deterring them.
So thanks, Natalie Portman, for showing us just how awesome the inside of a Walmart is for an overnight sleepover. I might just try it one of these days.
Walmart has everything you could need for an overnight venture. Food, blankets, mattresses, tents... even a McDonalds! You could definitely survive a sleepover there--or even the birth of your illegitimate child. Natalie Portman proved this to me last night while I was watching 'Where the Heart Is'. I was impressed at her resourcefulness; she even found a shower hose and took a bath in the sink. Now, would I really WANT to take a bath in the sink at a Walmart? No. (Have you SEEN the people that shop there?) But I guess if you were barefoot and 8.5 months preggo with nowhere else to go since your bf abandoned you in the parking lot, it would be an option.
Now, the trouble comes in that most Walmarts these days are 24 hours. Maybe they invoked this policy once they saw the movie. They didn't want no ladies havin' babies up in that motha. But if you were lucky enough to find one that closes at 9, you'd be golden.
Another thing I would do is go over to the electronics department, make all the TVs go to the same channel and play Mario Kart on all 17 of them. I want to see the Princess and the Toad larger than life. And those banana peels they throw.
I would also have myself a shopping cart race. Now, the Walmart by us has just graced us with brand new carts. I never realized what a luxury it is before, but now I look forward to going there solely for the smoothness of their cart experience. So I'd line one up by the McDonalds, run as fast as I could, then jump in it and speed down the aisle right in front, past the eye exam place. Hopefully if I went fast enough, I would end up crashing into the hair salon.
Oh, and I'd DEFINITELY take one of those electronic scooter deals for the handicapped people around the store while I did my activities. I have been dying to try one of those puppies out.
You could even protect yourself from inside a Walmart. Just break into the gun case and get yourself a pink hello kitty rifle to nestle under your Walmart brand aerobed. This would be great, because once someone came into the store and tried to rob you of all your carebears and pizza rolls, you'd have a way of deterring them.
So thanks, Natalie Portman, for showing us just how awesome the inside of a Walmart is for an overnight sleepover. I might just try it one of these days.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
These are my confessions, Usher.
Okay listen... I have something to confess. Sometimes, when I'm sitting at a stop light, I slip the cubic zirconia ring from my Grandma off of my right hand onto my left ring finger and watch it twinkle in the sunlight as I wiggle my fingers on the steering wheel. Then somebody honks and I'm all up in my daydream, so I give the guy the finger (my LEFT finger, so he sees the ring) and speed through the light. It's a great deterrent for potential stalkers at the gym, but mainly I just like to pretend K and I are engaged.
Before you freak out, I'm no crazy "I have to get married soon, I'm 27!" nut. My biological clock isn't ticking, I'm not baby crazy, or marriage crazy, or anything like that. I just can't help but beam from ear to ear when I think about the day we become actual family. I can't help but think about my future big poofy white cupcakey dress, the billions of flowers all over the place, and how I hope our kids look like K, and have his strength, patience, and intelligence.
It's the same reason that I've got an entire page in my Trapper Keeper scrawled with variations of my first name, middle name, and his last name (sometimes mine and his, hyphenated) outlined in hearts with smiley faces all over the page. I like to practice my signature for the day we get married. Just so, you know... I won't be all unprepared when I have to sign checks and notarize documents and stuff. Strictly business.
Some people make fun of others for changing their names so fast once they get married... are you kidding me? I'm going to be up on the alter like HOLD ON PRIEST... gotta change my name on facebook. Kthx.
Ahh.... Mrs. K.
It has a nice ring to it.
Before you freak out, I'm no crazy "I have to get married soon, I'm 27!" nut. My biological clock isn't ticking, I'm not baby crazy, or marriage crazy, or anything like that. I just can't help but beam from ear to ear when I think about the day we become actual family. I can't help but think about my future big poofy white cupcakey dress, the billions of flowers all over the place, and how I hope our kids look like K, and have his strength, patience, and intelligence.
It's the same reason that I've got an entire page in my Trapper Keeper scrawled with variations of my first name, middle name, and his last name (sometimes mine and his, hyphenated) outlined in hearts with smiley faces all over the page. I like to practice my signature for the day we get married. Just so, you know... I won't be all unprepared when I have to sign checks and notarize documents and stuff. Strictly business.
Some people make fun of others for changing their names so fast once they get married... are you kidding me? I'm going to be up on the alter like HOLD ON PRIEST... gotta change my name on facebook. Kthx.
Ahh.... Mrs. K.
It has a nice ring to it.
Friday, March 18, 2011
I quit the crack. Sort of.
I have DONE IT, YA'LL! Cue the slow clap. Since my last post at 2:13pm on Monday about how I just couldn't quit facebook despite my most gratuitous efforts, I have managed to remain OFF the FB. Each day got a little easier, and I managed to ONLY log on to my blog account to announce the new blog posts. I swear.
And I know it's only 9:30am on Friday, but I'm confident I'll be able to make it through. All it took was a little strength, perserverance, and a carton of cigarettes. I kid. I kid. Still smoke free since '93.
Annnnyways. So I have fought the power, stayed all strong and I'm feeling great! My head is slightly less cluttered, and I didn't feel like I had to refresh the page every two seconds to find out just how much jelly my best friend from elementary school likes on her PB&J.
Then yesterday comes.
I get a text from my sister asking about the details on our cousin's birthday party. What... birthday party? She tells me it's on facebook. Sonofa.
I missed something. My worst fears have come true, I have missed something. And not only that, but it's an event. That I have to RSVP to. When I get an invite to an event, the anxiety rises up in me like I'm going to spontaneously combust. It's like somebody flips an invisible hourglass and time is RUNNING OUT. Until I click that button and RSVP like the good socialite that I am.
Some people are fine with just leaving events in facebook purgatory. K is one of these people. I am SO not. I feel like if I don't respond to an event, everyone is going to hate me and I will have no friends. I straight panic. Lately, I've started replying "maybe" if I'm not entirely sure, just so that I have given some kind of answer. This seems to piss people off too.
So I had to do it. I logged on ONCE yesterday, just to reply "Yes" to the invite. I felt compelled to do it, even though I talk to my cousin regularly and could have easily just told her I was coming. But don't worry, I didn't look at ANYTHING else. Not even the little red box with the number "6" in it, showing how many people had written me messages and tried to contact me while I've been on FB hiatus. It. Was. Hard.
So despite the fact that my worst fears prevailed while I was on FB vacay and I happened to miss something that happened this week, I think the pros outweigh the cons. Maybe I can gradually step down my fb usage and just become a casual user, instead of overdosing on a daily basis. We'll see how I do next week.
And I know it's only 9:30am on Friday, but I'm confident I'll be able to make it through. All it took was a little strength, perserverance, and a carton of cigarettes. I kid. I kid. Still smoke free since '93.
Annnnyways. So I have fought the power, stayed all strong and I'm feeling great! My head is slightly less cluttered, and I didn't feel like I had to refresh the page every two seconds to find out just how much jelly my best friend from elementary school likes on her PB&J.
Then yesterday comes.
I get a text from my sister asking about the details on our cousin's birthday party. What... birthday party? She tells me it's on facebook. Sonofa.
I missed something. My worst fears have come true, I have missed something. And not only that, but it's an event. That I have to RSVP to. When I get an invite to an event, the anxiety rises up in me like I'm going to spontaneously combust. It's like somebody flips an invisible hourglass and time is RUNNING OUT. Until I click that button and RSVP like the good socialite that I am.
Some people are fine with just leaving events in facebook purgatory. K is one of these people. I am SO not. I feel like if I don't respond to an event, everyone is going to hate me and I will have no friends. I straight panic. Lately, I've started replying "maybe" if I'm not entirely sure, just so that I have given some kind of answer. This seems to piss people off too.
So I had to do it. I logged on ONCE yesterday, just to reply "Yes" to the invite. I felt compelled to do it, even though I talk to my cousin regularly and could have easily just told her I was coming. But don't worry, I didn't look at ANYTHING else. Not even the little red box with the number "6" in it, showing how many people had written me messages and tried to contact me while I've been on FB hiatus. It. Was. Hard.
So despite the fact that my worst fears prevailed while I was on FB vacay and I happened to miss something that happened this week, I think the pros outweigh the cons. Maybe I can gradually step down my fb usage and just become a casual user, instead of overdosing on a daily basis. We'll see how I do next week.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Don't mess with my DVR
I've been watching the Bachelor all season like it was my job. Every Monday night, I'd curl up on the couch in front of the TV, eyes glued to the classy ladies dolled up to be included in Brad's second batch of potential wives. This week was no exception.
So you can imagine how absolutely furious I was when I turned on my DVR to watch the season finale... and TOP GEAR HAD RECORDED OVER IT.
Top Gear. A car show. It wasn't even a new episode.
You... have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.
I must have panned through the list of recorded shows five times in denial before I accepted that it was true. I carefully googled to find out whether the finale had actually aired that night instead of some other magical night that I hadn't heard about. I knew I was running the risk of finding out who won the final rose, but I hoped I'd make it through the search unscathed. I've even managed to stay off of facebook to avoid seeing who had won.
Fail. Right on the ABC page that came up in my google search was a giant banner with a picture of them, saying "Congratulations to the happy couple!" Fuck you, ABC. No seriously. At least you redeemed yourself by having the episodes available online. Tiny high five.
Poor K called me on his lunch break and cheerfully asked how my day was. Big mistake. He must really love me (and/or could tell how genuinely upset I was about missing this pop culture classic) because he said I could delete the entire season of Top Gear. And to be honest, it felt pretty good to do it. Like punching the bully who beat up your kid. I really love that guy.
So... the moral of the story is that you don't mess with a lady's DVRed shows when she's holed up on the couch with a heating pad. Because it's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.
So you can imagine how absolutely furious I was when I turned on my DVR to watch the season finale... and TOP GEAR HAD RECORDED OVER IT.
Top Gear. A car show. It wasn't even a new episode.
You... have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.
I must have panned through the list of recorded shows five times in denial before I accepted that it was true. I carefully googled to find out whether the finale had actually aired that night instead of some other magical night that I hadn't heard about. I knew I was running the risk of finding out who won the final rose, but I hoped I'd make it through the search unscathed. I've even managed to stay off of facebook to avoid seeing who had won.
Fail. Right on the ABC page that came up in my google search was a giant banner with a picture of them, saying "Congratulations to the happy couple!" Fuck you, ABC. No seriously. At least you redeemed yourself by having the episodes available online. Tiny high five.
Poor K called me on his lunch break and cheerfully asked how my day was. Big mistake. He must really love me (and/or could tell how genuinely upset I was about missing this pop culture classic) because he said I could delete the entire season of Top Gear. And to be honest, it felt pretty good to do it. Like punching the bully who beat up your kid. I really love that guy.
So... the moral of the story is that you don't mess with a lady's DVRed shows when she's holed up on the couch with a heating pad. Because it's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Five Pillows and a Heating Pad
I threw my back out yesterday. Like takes-ten-minutes-to-put-my-socks-on out. God knows how I did it. I think all of the cat-robatics that I do getting out of bed in the morning to not squish Gwennie have caught up with me.
Every night, she curls up right against my left side, pinning my elbow to my side. I love that she snuggles with me, but in the morning when I go to turn my alarm off and get out of bed, I have to do some extreme Cirque du Soleil to escape the cat trap.
So here I am, five pillows and a heating pad later, all ambitions of cleaning this house and doing anything but remaining as still as possible tossed to the wind.
There are a number of activities that prove incredibly difficult when you hurt your back. Quite frankly, I took them for granted before. Never again.
Shaving my legs. I was feeling ambitious this morning, even though it took me two minutes just to waddle to the shower itself, but the shaving did not happen. I realized after I stood there, staring at my toes, trying to imagine in my head how I would bend down and make this magic happen that it was all a pipe dream. Sorry, K.
Putting on socks. It didn't occur to me until I went to go do it this morning just how difficult it would be. I had to carefully perch myself on a corner of the bed, use my left fingers to pry open the neck of the sock and inch it towards my foot as gently as possible. With my right hand, I tried to aim my toes toward the opening. (Scrunch socks were a bad plan, by the way. I should have gone with cheerleader socks.)
Stairs. Never have I been so grateful that we have two railings going up the stairs, because I needed them both. I had to consciously will each foot to move down each stair, hoping one wouldn't trip up and sneak under the other, causing a treacherous tumble.
Feeding the cats. Those poor little suckers had to wait seven excruciating minutes for me to get up the courage to bend down and pour them some food. What was really awesome was when they were headbutting my ankles so hard I thought I was going to crash and burn. This is a precariously balanced situation, if you haven't noticed, kitties.
These are the simple things that took me hours to accomplish yesterday. I bet my neighbors are getting a kick out of watching me hobble about the house with my hand on my back like I'm 90. Maybe tomorrow I'll take an extra hour, get dressed in front of the window and show them how a real woman puts on socks.
Every night, she curls up right against my left side, pinning my elbow to my side. I love that she snuggles with me, but in the morning when I go to turn my alarm off and get out of bed, I have to do some extreme Cirque du Soleil to escape the cat trap.
So here I am, five pillows and a heating pad later, all ambitions of cleaning this house and doing anything but remaining as still as possible tossed to the wind.
There are a number of activities that prove incredibly difficult when you hurt your back. Quite frankly, I took them for granted before. Never again.
Shaving my legs. I was feeling ambitious this morning, even though it took me two minutes just to waddle to the shower itself, but the shaving did not happen. I realized after I stood there, staring at my toes, trying to imagine in my head how I would bend down and make this magic happen that it was all a pipe dream. Sorry, K.
Putting on socks. It didn't occur to me until I went to go do it this morning just how difficult it would be. I had to carefully perch myself on a corner of the bed, use my left fingers to pry open the neck of the sock and inch it towards my foot as gently as possible. With my right hand, I tried to aim my toes toward the opening. (Scrunch socks were a bad plan, by the way. I should have gone with cheerleader socks.)
Stairs. Never have I been so grateful that we have two railings going up the stairs, because I needed them both. I had to consciously will each foot to move down each stair, hoping one wouldn't trip up and sneak under the other, causing a treacherous tumble.
Feeding the cats. Those poor little suckers had to wait seven excruciating minutes for me to get up the courage to bend down and pour them some food. What was really awesome was when they were headbutting my ankles so hard I thought I was going to crash and burn. This is a precariously balanced situation, if you haven't noticed, kitties.
These are the simple things that took me hours to accomplish yesterday. I bet my neighbors are getting a kick out of watching me hobble about the house with my hand on my back like I'm 90. Maybe tomorrow I'll take an extra hour, get dressed in front of the window and show them how a real woman puts on socks.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Facebook is a giant crack rock.
I woke up this morning with big dreams. I had derived an ambitious plan to take over the world... and try to give up facebook for the week. I made it 3 hours.
Facebook is a giant crack rock, luring me to its crooked slumlord house with promises of prostitutes sitting in corners and bare mattresses in dirty, upstairs rooms. My plan was to try to eliminate the many factors that bring stress to my life, since I have a habit of over multi-tasking. I try to get several things done at once, which leads to me standing in the middle of the kitchen hours later, hands on my hips, head spinning like Linda Blair, trying to remember why I came down to the kitchen in the first place.
I thought this might have a lot to do with trying to get so many things done at the same time. I still think it does. My first plan of attack was to document my week without facebook and make a journal of how much better I was feeling at the end of the week.
Fail. Here's how the morning wound up going:
Hour one: sipping coffee, doing productive things for various clients on the computer. Have only one tab open in my internet browser. Have moments of restlessness, but am overall feeling very good about my strength and self control. Am very optimistic about end results.
Hour two: productive tasks begin to slow down a bit as projects become accomplished. Moments of restlessness become more severe. Have drank two large cups of coffee to compensate for being bored. Allow myself to open Gmail and PerezHilton to distract.
Hour three: begin to wonder if my sister has posted the photos from this weekend. Wonder what everyone else was up to this weekend. Begin to fantasize that people have become engaged or married or had babies in the two hours since I have been on facebook. Restlessness becomes more intense, translates to another large cup of coffee. I try to force Twitter into being my rebound boyfriend and attempt to get myself interested in that as a replacement. It doesn't work. Twitter is the poor man's facebook. And seeing as how I am only following 20 people, it can only be SO interesting. I even go so far as to check Charlie Sheen's page to see if any more cops have come to his house over the weekend. No dice.
End of hour three: legs shaking. Convince myself that a quick check of the newsfeed is not only healthy, but necessary. I need to know what has gone on this weekend, and the world is obviously going to come crashing down if I don't check it. I hover my mouse over the bookmark on my toolbar, teasing myself, like a crack addict holding a pipe. Just to see what will happen. I'm testing my strength. Suddenly, my willpower smashes to bits. The mouse inevitably clicks itself on facebook, and that beautiful blue page opens up full screen on my monitor. I put down the coffee and dive face first into the drama that has occurred over the weekend. All is right with the world.
A few hours later, I'm left feeling satisfied but slightly dejected that my ambitious week-long endeavor lasted 3 hours. I thought I was stronger than that. My big ambitious dreams crashed and burned with one click of the mouse. And yes, my sister did post the pictures from this weekend. They were glorious. But part of me wonders if in a few hours I will wind up downstairs, doing laps around my kitchen, wondering why I had come downstairs in the first place. Maybe I'll give this plan another shot. You never know--tomorrow I could last a whole four hours.
UPDATE: I have managed to stay off of facebook since I posted this delicious blog morsel. Bets on if I can keep it up for the rest of the week? So far it's been almost 36 hours. Must be a record.
Facebook is a giant crack rock, luring me to its crooked slumlord house with promises of prostitutes sitting in corners and bare mattresses in dirty, upstairs rooms. My plan was to try to eliminate the many factors that bring stress to my life, since I have a habit of over multi-tasking. I try to get several things done at once, which leads to me standing in the middle of the kitchen hours later, hands on my hips, head spinning like Linda Blair, trying to remember why I came down to the kitchen in the first place.
I thought this might have a lot to do with trying to get so many things done at the same time. I still think it does. My first plan of attack was to document my week without facebook and make a journal of how much better I was feeling at the end of the week.
Fail. Here's how the morning wound up going:
Hour one: sipping coffee, doing productive things for various clients on the computer. Have only one tab open in my internet browser. Have moments of restlessness, but am overall feeling very good about my strength and self control. Am very optimistic about end results.
Hour two: productive tasks begin to slow down a bit as projects become accomplished. Moments of restlessness become more severe. Have drank two large cups of coffee to compensate for being bored. Allow myself to open Gmail and PerezHilton to distract.
Hour three: begin to wonder if my sister has posted the photos from this weekend. Wonder what everyone else was up to this weekend. Begin to fantasize that people have become engaged or married or had babies in the two hours since I have been on facebook. Restlessness becomes more intense, translates to another large cup of coffee. I try to force Twitter into being my rebound boyfriend and attempt to get myself interested in that as a replacement. It doesn't work. Twitter is the poor man's facebook. And seeing as how I am only following 20 people, it can only be SO interesting. I even go so far as to check Charlie Sheen's page to see if any more cops have come to his house over the weekend. No dice.
End of hour three: legs shaking. Convince myself that a quick check of the newsfeed is not only healthy, but necessary. I need to know what has gone on this weekend, and the world is obviously going to come crashing down if I don't check it. I hover my mouse over the bookmark on my toolbar, teasing myself, like a crack addict holding a pipe. Just to see what will happen. I'm testing my strength. Suddenly, my willpower smashes to bits. The mouse inevitably clicks itself on facebook, and that beautiful blue page opens up full screen on my monitor. I put down the coffee and dive face first into the drama that has occurred over the weekend. All is right with the world.
A few hours later, I'm left feeling satisfied but slightly dejected that my ambitious week-long endeavor lasted 3 hours. I thought I was stronger than that. My big ambitious dreams crashed and burned with one click of the mouse. And yes, my sister did post the pictures from this weekend. They were glorious. But part of me wonders if in a few hours I will wind up downstairs, doing laps around my kitchen, wondering why I had come downstairs in the first place. Maybe I'll give this plan another shot. You never know--tomorrow I could last a whole four hours.
UPDATE: I have managed to stay off of facebook since I posted this delicious blog morsel. Bets on if I can keep it up for the rest of the week? So far it's been almost 36 hours. Must be a record.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Jesus created the Double FOF
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| The most perfect food ever created by Jesus himself. |
The Filet-o-fish (appropriately capitalized) is the central pillar to nutrition in my life. It feeds my soul. Nothing makes me happier than those tasty little squares of faux fish, a Kraft single and that delicious tartar sauce. One FOF is absolutely scrumptious, and a double is beyond comprehension. I am quite sure that in heaven, angels donning visors serve glistening trays towered high with piles of perfectly shaped filet-o-fishes. I think they were invented by Jesus himself. Who else could have created the most perfect food on the face of this planet? Surely, the guy behind the counter at McDonalds didn't do it.
If I was on death row and asked what I wanted my final meal to be, I'd order one thousand double Filet-o-fishes, make myself a fort in my jail cell using the tartar as mortar, and try to eat my way out. That way, if I kicked the bucket from an FOF overdose, I would die the most delicious death you could possibly imagine.
And the perfect compliment to the perfect dinner? The shamrock shake. I just had my first shamrock shake last week. Unbelievable, I know. Let me tell you, I didn't know what I was missing. The green color was a bit of a turn off, I guess. But I am sincerely sorry that I judged you by your color, shamrock shake. I mourn the loss of all the years I have spent without your deliciousness in my life.
And so, while I respect everyone else giving up things for Lent, I will be doing the opposite and over-indulging in the most perfect food ever created, and probably sabotaging my own diet plan. Thanks, McDonalds! Happy Double FOF Season!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I have a creepy cougar crush on Justin Bieber.
It's true. It's a little pedophilic, in an "I'm-old-enough-to-be-your-mother" way, but I'm more than a little obsessed with him. I'm even contemplating going see the JB movie in the theaters by myself. (Any takers? I won't judge you, I promise. It can be a secret date.)
But I've got to be honest: the Biebs gets a haircut and it makes front-page news? You've got to be kidding me. I think even JB himself would agree that's a little ridiculous. Aren't there more important things going on in the world? Like Charlie Sheen waving around a machete?
Can you IMAGINE the pressure if your haircuts got front page news? It's terrifying enough to sit in that chair and let someone with pointy scissors come at your noggin full force. But what if the paparazzi were staring in at you through the window, documenting every inch snipped? You'd REALLY have to make sure you wore a long enough shirt so your plumber wouldn't show up on PerezHilton.com.
We've all had terrible haircuts in the past... (pixie cut, anyone?) and I'll tell you what, I wouldn't want that documented on CNN. It's bad enough that I have school pictures from every year of high school showcasing the veritable transformation of my locks through the ages. Poor Biebs. I don't think that Canadian munchkin alien superstar will ever be the same again. It must be one hell of a distorted reality to live in where your haircuts get front page news.
Can you IMAGINE the pressure if your haircuts got front page news? It's terrifying enough to sit in that chair and let someone with pointy scissors come at your noggin full force. But what if the paparazzi were staring in at you through the window, documenting every inch snipped? You'd REALLY have to make sure you wore a long enough shirt so your plumber wouldn't show up on PerezHilton.com.
We've all had terrible haircuts in the past... (pixie cut, anyone?) and I'll tell you what, I wouldn't want that documented on CNN. It's bad enough that I have school pictures from every year of high school showcasing the veritable transformation of my locks through the ages. Poor Biebs. I don't think that Canadian munchkin alien superstar will ever be the same again. It must be one hell of a distorted reality to live in where your haircuts get front page news.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Home Depot is where dreams go to die.
Which is precisely what I told the orange-smocked employee who asked me if he could help with anything when K abandoned me to poke around in the nuts and bolts aisle.
I hate Home Depot with the firey passion of a thousand burning suns. Every time we go there, we wind up spending two hours and hundreds of dollars on crap that is of no interest to me. Like caulk. And PVC pipes. And giant towers of lumber that we can't fit in the car.
It's boring. There are no toys for me to play with, and I have no vision when it comes to home projects, so I can't get excited about the things that K does. He has vision. And he knows how to build things. So Home Depot is like Toys-R-Us for him. Me? Not so much.
K has to either bribe or trick me to even get me to the parking lot of that godforsaken place. Last time, he told me we were going to Taco Bell to get some dinner, and we magically ended up at Home Depot. Naturally, I threw a temper tantrum in the parking lot and he had to hold my hand and drag me through the store so I wouldn't wander off.
When I am too smart for his trickery and discover our destination before he wants me to, he has to turn to bribery. In the summertime, he will get me a slurpee from Cumberland Farms (Mad Cola and Red Rage mixed) and let me carry it around the Depot so I stay entertained. And if I am good for the whole trip, he will let me get a Snickers at the end.
When I get bored at Home Depot, things go awry. For instance, while K is spending three hours picking out seven nuts and bolts that just look like hunks of junk to me, my eyes begin to wander to anything that I can pick up and hit things with (like yard sticks), or staple guns. I have found that the quickest way to get K to leave Home Depot is for me to shoot the staple guns one by one, giving him a devilish look out of the corner of my eye to ensure he is paying attention to me, until he says "Okay, we're almost done." And then I'll stop. But only for an instant, because if he is lying, I will turn right back to the staple guns and continue my debauchery.
On the worst Home Depot adventure we have ever had, I took this picture of myself and texted it to K so he would see how angry I was about being in the Depot. We left 5 minutes later.
I think I will have to keep getting creative when it comes to finding ways to make an early exit from the Depot. If I don't, we will wind up sleeping there in the lumber department until they open the next day. And let me tell you, I will not be a happy camper.
I hate Home Depot with the firey passion of a thousand burning suns. Every time we go there, we wind up spending two hours and hundreds of dollars on crap that is of no interest to me. Like caulk. And PVC pipes. And giant towers of lumber that we can't fit in the car.
It's boring. There are no toys for me to play with, and I have no vision when it comes to home projects, so I can't get excited about the things that K does. He has vision. And he knows how to build things. So Home Depot is like Toys-R-Us for him. Me? Not so much.
K has to either bribe or trick me to even get me to the parking lot of that godforsaken place. Last time, he told me we were going to Taco Bell to get some dinner, and we magically ended up at Home Depot. Naturally, I threw a temper tantrum in the parking lot and he had to hold my hand and drag me through the store so I wouldn't wander off.
When I am too smart for his trickery and discover our destination before he wants me to, he has to turn to bribery. In the summertime, he will get me a slurpee from Cumberland Farms (Mad Cola and Red Rage mixed) and let me carry it around the Depot so I stay entertained. And if I am good for the whole trip, he will let me get a Snickers at the end.
 |
| The photo I texted to K to let him know I was ready to leave. |
On the worst Home Depot adventure we have ever had, I took this picture of myself and texted it to K so he would see how angry I was about being in the Depot. We left 5 minutes later.
I think I will have to keep getting creative when it comes to finding ways to make an early exit from the Depot. If I don't, we will wind up sleeping there in the lumber department until they open the next day. And let me tell you, I will not be a happy camper.
Friday, March 4, 2011
#hashtagsarefuckingstupid
I can't keep up with you kids and your technology. Yesterday I tried to figure out the magic of the twitter machine, and it made me feel like an 80-year-old woman instead of 27. What the hell is all of this business? 140 characters? Hash tags? Trending? @ symbols?
The only reason I started to figure it out in the first place is because I wanted to see the crazy ass rants that Charlie Sheen had to offer. He reached one million followers in 24 hours. 24 HOURS! That's unreal. And it totally makes sense, because he has branded himself as one crazy ass mutha in a matter of days. And his tweets are unmatched in entertainment value.
I guess it's like dangling a toy in front of a baby to get it to learn how to walk. I just needed some motivation to learn the twitter machine. Carlos Estevez was it.
But it brought about a series of questions from my end. First of all, how is anyone supposed to summarize all of the verbal vomit they have to unleash on the world of the internets in 140 characters? It practically FORCES you to use bad grammar and punctuation, which gives me a migraine even thinking about it. I'm a grammar whore, if you haven't noticed.
What the hell is this trending thing? It's like reading hieroglyphics. Number signs and followers... it's all so damn confusing. I finally understand that the trending thing is basically a topic that people link to in their posts to join the "conversation". Like #tigerblood. Or #twittersucks. Or #hashtagsarefuckingstupid.
I still don't understand how to make friends on twitter. You follow someone, but they might not follow you back. On facebook, it's easy. Cut and dry. "Add as Friend." On twitter, it's a grey area. Because are you really friends with someone if they don't follow YOU? It's like a loveless marriage.
And Retweets? Is that a reply to someone's comment on the Tweeter? But there's also an option to Reply.
Honestly, my almost 30-year-old head is spinning just trying to comprehend the innerworkings of the twitter machine. But I'll tell you one thing: If Charlie Sheen keeps spitting his crazy twitter babble, I'm going to learn it if it kills me.
Feel free to follow me on my journey through the twitmachine: twitter.com/pinkginghamgirl
The only reason I started to figure it out in the first place is because I wanted to see the crazy ass rants that Charlie Sheen had to offer. He reached one million followers in 24 hours. 24 HOURS! That's unreal. And it totally makes sense, because he has branded himself as one crazy ass mutha in a matter of days. And his tweets are unmatched in entertainment value.
I guess it's like dangling a toy in front of a baby to get it to learn how to walk. I just needed some motivation to learn the twitter machine. Carlos Estevez was it.
But it brought about a series of questions from my end. First of all, how is anyone supposed to summarize all of the verbal vomit they have to unleash on the world of the internets in 140 characters? It practically FORCES you to use bad grammar and punctuation, which gives me a migraine even thinking about it. I'm a grammar whore, if you haven't noticed.
What the hell is this trending thing? It's like reading hieroglyphics. Number signs and followers... it's all so damn confusing. I finally understand that the trending thing is basically a topic that people link to in their posts to join the "conversation". Like #tigerblood. Or #twittersucks. Or #hashtagsarefuckingstupid.
I still don't understand how to make friends on twitter. You follow someone, but they might not follow you back. On facebook, it's easy. Cut and dry. "Add as Friend." On twitter, it's a grey area. Because are you really friends with someone if they don't follow YOU? It's like a loveless marriage.
And Retweets? Is that a reply to someone's comment on the Tweeter? But there's also an option to Reply.
Honestly, my almost 30-year-old head is spinning just trying to comprehend the innerworkings of the twitter machine. But I'll tell you one thing: If Charlie Sheen keeps spitting his crazy twitter babble, I'm going to learn it if it kills me.
Feel free to follow me on my journey through the twitmachine: twitter.com/pinkginghamgirl
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Futon FAIL
Thanks to my mom, along with my varsity jacket and gaggle of carebears, I have reacquired the futon that was my makeshift bed throughout the slightly fuzzy years of college. But there was a problem: it wasn't assembled. And there were no directions. I mean, it's 10 years old, so I'm surprised it even has accompanying accessories. My sister brought me those in a plastic bag with the words "S - YOU NEED THIS" written on it. Thanksssss.
So yesterday I get on an energy kick on my lunch break and start piecing the mythical beast together.
I dump out the plastic bag onto the carpet and line up the contents: 3 long screws, 6 medium screws, 4 short screws, a buttload of nuts (that's what she said), a screwdriver, an allen wrench, and some pliers. Pliers? What the hell are those for? And how did we end up with only THREE long screws? I can already tell this spells disaster.
Perplexed, I sit on the carpet for several minutes surveying my project. The black frame lies in a menacing heap on the floor, the mismatched and oddly numbered screws lay strewn about, cackling at me.
What. the fuck.
One sweaty, bloody hour later, I stared at the rickety beast I had clumsily assembled and wrinkled my forehead in confusion. There were still 3 long screws, 6 medium screws, and a buttload of nuts on the carpet. I had managed to assemble the entire futon with only 4 short screws.
And I wouldn't DARE sit on the thing, it is bound to come crashing to the ground.
So as a temporary brace, I piled some of my heavy design books under the frame to reinforce it until K inevitably comes home tolaugh at save me and reassemble it. I wish him luck.
So yesterday I get on an energy kick on my lunch break and start piecing the mythical beast together.
I dump out the plastic bag onto the carpet and line up the contents: 3 long screws, 6 medium screws, 4 short screws, a buttload of nuts (that's what she said), a screwdriver, an allen wrench, and some pliers. Pliers? What the hell are those for? And how did we end up with only THREE long screws? I can already tell this spells disaster.
Perplexed, I sit on the carpet for several minutes surveying my project. The black frame lies in a menacing heap on the floor, the mismatched and oddly numbered screws lay strewn about, cackling at me.
What. the fuck.
One sweaty, bloody hour later, I stared at the rickety beast I had clumsily assembled and wrinkled my forehead in confusion. There were still 3 long screws, 6 medium screws, and a buttload of nuts on the carpet. I had managed to assemble the entire futon with only 4 short screws.
And I wouldn't DARE sit on the thing, it is bound to come crashing to the ground.
So as a temporary brace, I piled some of my heavy design books under the frame to reinforce it until K inevitably comes home to
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| The stack of books currently supporting the futon. |
 |
| The buttload of nuts I'm left with AFTER the assembly. WTF? |
 |
| This totally looks right. |
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| Where I tried a medium screw instead of a short one, and ended up poking that mutha through the wood. |
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Here Comes the Meat Wagon
So yesterday, I'm driving along... driving along... screaming Kesha songs at the top of my lungs with the radio turned up so I can't hear the loud buzz of my wheel bearing, when out of the corner of my eye I see the tire of the car coming towards me in the opposite direction POP!
It always happens in slow motion, doesn't it? It's like the world slows down and you watch every inch of rubber explode at the same time, the car swerve across that yellow median, and you have 0.1 seconds to react.
I wouldn't have even SEEN it if the car behind him hadn't been tailgating him, lighting up the entire underbelly of his whip with his bright assholey headlights. And the timing was impeccable. I mean, we were FEET from each other when I saw the tire go.
In that hot split MacGyver moment of clarity before your fate is handed to you in a bloody breadbasket, what do you do? You take a look around and see what your options are. Option A: stay in your lane, keep straight, and hope the car doesn't spin out of control and knock you into next Tuesday. Option B: swerve to the shoulder, hope there aren't any pedestrians, squirrels or elderly folks out on a Rascal joyride, and avoid the collision. Option C: start yelling and swearing, and maybe pee yourself.
I opted for Option B, and a little of Option C.
The car swerved just over the median towards me, I drove over slightly onto the shoulder, and THANKFULLY he pulled BACK over into his lane. I watched his car shudder to the shoulder in my rearview mirror. I continued on my way, wide-awake and suddenly alert like I had never been in my life, thinking about all of the bad possibilities that could have happened, and the crazy timing of his tire blowing that I would have even watched that happen.
I bet the guy riding his ass had a moment of clarity himself. Hope he had good brakes.
It always happens in slow motion, doesn't it? It's like the world slows down and you watch every inch of rubber explode at the same time, the car swerve across that yellow median, and you have 0.1 seconds to react.
I wouldn't have even SEEN it if the car behind him hadn't been tailgating him, lighting up the entire underbelly of his whip with his bright assholey headlights. And the timing was impeccable. I mean, we were FEET from each other when I saw the tire go.
In that hot split MacGyver moment of clarity before your fate is handed to you in a bloody breadbasket, what do you do? You take a look around and see what your options are. Option A: stay in your lane, keep straight, and hope the car doesn't spin out of control and knock you into next Tuesday. Option B: swerve to the shoulder, hope there aren't any pedestrians, squirrels or elderly folks out on a Rascal joyride, and avoid the collision. Option C: start yelling and swearing, and maybe pee yourself.
I opted for Option B, and a little of Option C.
The car swerved just over the median towards me, I drove over slightly onto the shoulder, and THANKFULLY he pulled BACK over into his lane. I watched his car shudder to the shoulder in my rearview mirror. I continued on my way, wide-awake and suddenly alert like I had never been in my life, thinking about all of the bad possibilities that could have happened, and the crazy timing of his tire blowing that I would have even watched that happen.
I bet the guy riding his ass had a moment of clarity himself. Hope he had good brakes.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Russian Mafia on these Muthas
I am never buying potting soil from Walmart again. I guess I should have known that the grocery store with a McDonalds in it wouldn't specialize in lawn and gardening materials, but whatevs.
MONTHS ago, we bought a bag of Miracle Gro so we could transplant all of the awesome plants I had brought from my apartment, along with some new ones we got to bring some life to the house. Turns out, we brought more life into the house than we bargained for.
Worms. All up in muh plants. We didn't notice them at first, but then we began to realize in horror that they were all throughout the soil. And a few randos will escape now and then, to meet a fate worse than death (that usually ends in death): my cats.
I trusted you, Walmart. I trusted your low prices and smiley face mascot... I even trusted your brand name potting soil, thinking it was safe. But you've brought a plague onto my house that even the Capulets couldn't top, and now I hate you forever. Maybe more than Home Depot.
The worst part is that we bought a GIANT bag and used it to pot every SINGLE plant in this house. Six. Six plants (Mantis, Spike, Laverne and Shirley, Horace and Grimace) all with wormy disgustingtons in them. Actually it's mainly Mantis and Spike that we're having the problems with, but they are creeping me the fuck out. (And yes, we name our plants. Are you really that surprised? I sleep with a pink gingham pillow every night.)
I've tried everything. I've searched for solutions in the google machine, we tried to flood them out, to starve them by NOT watering, we've tried it all. We really wanted to avoid using pesticides, mainly because the small furry ones in this house listen to discipline about as well as the worms themselves.
But I am at my breaking point, y'all. I had nightmares about these damn things, and I just called K at work hyperventilating.
I can't take it anymore. And I'm about to go Russian Mafia on these muthas. Pesticides, I'm giving you an ass slap and sending you into the game. And Spike and Mantis, your new home will be the naughty stool in the garage for awhile. I love you both, but it's all for the best.
MONTHS ago, we bought a bag of Miracle Gro so we could transplant all of the awesome plants I had brought from my apartment, along with some new ones we got to bring some life to the house. Turns out, we brought more life into the house than we bargained for.
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| A fate worse than death. (And no, I didn't let Linus eat it.) |
I trusted you, Walmart. I trusted your low prices and smiley face mascot... I even trusted your brand name potting soil, thinking it was safe. But you've brought a plague onto my house that even the Capulets couldn't top, and now I hate you forever. Maybe more than Home Depot.
The worst part is that we bought a GIANT bag and used it to pot every SINGLE plant in this house. Six. Six plants (Mantis, Spike, Laverne and Shirley, Horace and Grimace) all with wormy disgustingtons in them. Actually it's mainly Mantis and Spike that we're having the problems with, but they are creeping me the fuck out. (And yes, we name our plants. Are you really that surprised? I sleep with a pink gingham pillow every night.)
I've tried everything. I've searched for solutions in the google machine, we tried to flood them out, to starve them by NOT watering, we've tried it all. We really wanted to avoid using pesticides, mainly because the small furry ones in this house listen to discipline about as well as the worms themselves.
But I am at my breaking point, y'all. I had nightmares about these damn things, and I just called K at work hyperventilating.
I can't take it anymore. And I'm about to go Russian Mafia on these muthas. Pesticides, I'm giving you an ass slap and sending you into the game. And Spike and Mantis, your new home will be the naughty stool in the garage for awhile. I love you both, but it's all for the best.
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