Most of my loyal (and disloyal but still interested) readers know that I have had a long standing disagreement with a branch of the U.S. military. They thought I looked nice in camouflage and combat boots. I thought I was more of a stiletto and wrap dress kind of girl. I like to wear my hair down and curly. They liked my hair tidy and tucked up in a bun. The list continues.
Monday at 3 p.m. central standard time we had a mutual break-up. It was a little more mutual on my part than theirs, but most break-ups are. We are headed down separate roads ne'er to cross paths again if fate is done messing with me. No more combat boots. No more spit polish (though to be honest, there wasn't much of that to begin with. The secret to shiny boots is regular shoe polish, a cigarette lighter, and a buffing cloth. Spit not required, thank God.) No more camo unless it's ironic or Halloween.
It was such a cordial breakup they're even giving me an honorable discharge as a parting gift. Isn't that thoughtful?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Apple of my eye, pain in my tush
While the title of this post could easily be referring to my pup as she is a constant delight and headache, it is not.
My laptop finally fired up its last microchip, choked on a gigabyte, and went to meet the great microprocessor in the sky. (I obviously don't know squat about computers so forgive the terminology.) DH is a Mac guy and wanted our next computer to be white with partially eaten fruit on the cover. Thus, I learned today that Apple is like a cult, only the people are hipper and slightly more fanatical. I don't really care one way or the other which is not a safe thing to say in an Apple store. I thought they would strap me down and force feed me the Kool-Aid on the spot. Because I don't care and DH does, I am now the indifferent owner of a MacBook Pro.
I have no idea what the Pro stands for, but it costs extra. I do like the backlit keys. It really saves my eyes while I'm typing these posts in the dark trying not to keep DH awake. On the other hand, I have no idea how to use the stinking thing. I refused to pay the $99 to be taught how to use the computer, so I just spent ten minutes figuring out how to copy text. I'm not sure how to right click as the mouse has no buttons. Things keep bouncing at me for no apparently good reason, and the "i" in front of all the applications is getting annoying. I get it. You're cool.
Maybe I will become a convert eventually. For now, this thing should be glad that it's pretty. My love of pretty things is all that is saving it from annihilation.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Toothpaste
One of my best friends has done me the honor of asking me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. It's a big deal, as weddings tend to be. True love and all that. With the honor comes the dress - the bridesmaid dress. Cue the horror film music.
All girls have stories of the bridesmaid dress. Ruffled. Beribboned. Themed. Ruffled again. Bows tacked in strategically unattractive places. So bad fourth rate drag queens wouldn't wear them around the house on the off chance they might trip on the hem, choke on a ruffle, die, and be found in it.
These dresses aren't terrible. Each bridemaid has a different style of dress all in the same color: serene. They are quite fitting actually. The slutty girl is wearing the slutty dress, the sweet one is wearing the sweet and innocent dress, and so on. My dress thankfully has no frills, no ruffles, no bows. I'm not into strategic draping or cleavage enhancing mermaid shapes or rhinestones. Interpret that how you will.
I went to pick up the dress today. The store's policy is if you take the dress out the door, you can't bring it back. I think it's to ward off hysterical women who gained ten pounds from stress eating because their friend is getting married and they are sure this means they will die alone with four cats. I tried the dress on per my orders from the bride. The sample size had fit beautifully - no tailoring required. The actual dress did not.
The waist fit wonderfully. The cleavage area was a little snug. Pretty snug. Very snug. If I were a tube of toothpaste, someone had just stepped on me so I squeezed out the top. I was a beer with too much head. I was a summer sausage popping out of the casing. It was not pretty. I stepped out of the dressing room with my hands crossed to cover the parts that should have been under fabric. The alterations lady looked me up and down like a prize hog.
"You are too big."
"Excuse me? I think the dress is too small. I am the perfect size, thank you very much."
"No, too big." She whipped out a tape measure. " See your waist is a two. Your bust is an eight. You are too big. I cannot help you." She stalked off.
I was annoyed. My inappropriately garbed self cornered a salesgirl. We discussed. Turns out my dress can't be ordered in a larger size in time for the wedding IN SEPTEMBER. If I had gone for the slutty version or the princess version, not a problem. But since I picked the simple, no frills, no ruffles, no tiara required version it had to be special ordered. Who knew it was so popular to be a candy color swathed lady-of-the-night?
I also learned there is a two inch difference allowance in sizes for mass produced clothing. Two inches. If I were sewing up someone's face, and I was off by two inches, they would be pissed. Roofer off by two inches - you complain about the water dripping onto your bed. Tiger Woods off by two inches - he's playing like he is now. I can think of a lot of examples where two inches makes one helluva difference.
There are times when you have to take one for the team...or for the bride. I'm ordering one of the other dresses that they can get faster. Ruffles. Bows. Rhinestones.
Sigh.
All girls have stories of the bridesmaid dress. Ruffled. Beribboned. Themed. Ruffled again. Bows tacked in strategically unattractive places. So bad fourth rate drag queens wouldn't wear them around the house on the off chance they might trip on the hem, choke on a ruffle, die, and be found in it.
These dresses aren't terrible. Each bridemaid has a different style of dress all in the same color: serene. They are quite fitting actually. The slutty girl is wearing the slutty dress, the sweet one is wearing the sweet and innocent dress, and so on. My dress thankfully has no frills, no ruffles, no bows. I'm not into strategic draping or cleavage enhancing mermaid shapes or rhinestones. Interpret that how you will.
I went to pick up the dress today. The store's policy is if you take the dress out the door, you can't bring it back. I think it's to ward off hysterical women who gained ten pounds from stress eating because their friend is getting married and they are sure this means they will die alone with four cats. I tried the dress on per my orders from the bride. The sample size had fit beautifully - no tailoring required. The actual dress did not.
The waist fit wonderfully. The cleavage area was a little snug. Pretty snug. Very snug. If I were a tube of toothpaste, someone had just stepped on me so I squeezed out the top. I was a beer with too much head. I was a summer sausage popping out of the casing. It was not pretty. I stepped out of the dressing room with my hands crossed to cover the parts that should have been under fabric. The alterations lady looked me up and down like a prize hog.
"You are too big."
"Excuse me? I think the dress is too small. I am the perfect size, thank you very much."
"No, too big." She whipped out a tape measure. " See your waist is a two. Your bust is an eight. You are too big. I cannot help you." She stalked off.
I was annoyed. My inappropriately garbed self cornered a salesgirl. We discussed. Turns out my dress can't be ordered in a larger size in time for the wedding IN SEPTEMBER. If I had gone for the slutty version or the princess version, not a problem. But since I picked the simple, no frills, no ruffles, no tiara required version it had to be special ordered. Who knew it was so popular to be a candy color swathed lady-of-the-night?
I also learned there is a two inch difference allowance in sizes for mass produced clothing. Two inches. If I were sewing up someone's face, and I was off by two inches, they would be pissed. Roofer off by two inches - you complain about the water dripping onto your bed. Tiger Woods off by two inches - he's playing like he is now. I can think of a lot of examples where two inches makes one helluva difference.
There are times when you have to take one for the team...or for the bride. I'm ordering one of the other dresses that they can get faster. Ruffles. Bows. Rhinestones.
Sigh.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wasted days, sleepless nights
It was a day hot enough to make the devil sigh... or so the people up North believed. Sprinklers made slow passes over parched yards. Lawn mowers remained tucked away in garages, giving the neighborhood a much welcomed respite from their growls. Insects couldn't be bothered to flit from one wilting plant to another. Dogs took refuge under yawning oaks cooling their bellies on the moistened grass. As for me, I lazed in the hammock sipping sweet iced tea and wasting away the afternoon.
My companions were guilty pleasures, bittersweet daydreams of past and current loves, dark chocolates, a treatise on ethics, and a darling pup who loves me desperately in spite of my (many) flaws. We whiled away the day together...watched the clouds drift past and attempted to make sense of the past year. We were unsuccessful as most are who try to derive a logical conclusion from this wholly illogical life, but we were at last content.
Contentment is a rather rare and fleeting feeling these days. Too many irons in the fire, too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions. In the spirit of that old cliche, I was afraid to hold on too tightly lest it slip away and desperate to cling to it for the same reason. It did fade as the sun set; the day ebbing into night. My demons returned accompanied by the familiar foes of sleeplessness and uncertainty. I know it will be a long night. I would cease to fight if I did not believe that pain is what allows us to fully experience joy. So I continue.
Here's to the rest of you on this long night. May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for, may misfortune follow you all your life, but never catch up, and may you be a half hour in heaven before the devil knows you're there.
My companions were guilty pleasures, bittersweet daydreams of past and current loves, dark chocolates, a treatise on ethics, and a darling pup who loves me desperately in spite of my (many) flaws. We whiled away the day together...watched the clouds drift past and attempted to make sense of the past year. We were unsuccessful as most are who try to derive a logical conclusion from this wholly illogical life, but we were at last content.
Contentment is a rather rare and fleeting feeling these days. Too many irons in the fire, too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions. In the spirit of that old cliche, I was afraid to hold on too tightly lest it slip away and desperate to cling to it for the same reason. It did fade as the sun set; the day ebbing into night. My demons returned accompanied by the familiar foes of sleeplessness and uncertainty. I know it will be a long night. I would cease to fight if I did not believe that pain is what allows us to fully experience joy. So I continue.
Here's to the rest of you on this long night. May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for, may misfortune follow you all your life, but never catch up, and may you be a half hour in heaven before the devil knows you're there.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Happy Hours
We went to a will-not-be-named chain restaurant this past week because I refuse to turn on the air conditioning. I just don't think eighty is hot enough. The people up here can live with thirty degrees below zero, but if the mercury rises a few marks above seventy they think they will suffocate. I miss the South.
Anyway, this place makes the best Southwest eggrolls besides mine. It was still early evening, so we thought we might make happy hour. We shouldn't have been concerned, as this chain advertises that they have "Happy Hour All Day Every Day! 2 for 1 Drinks!"
DH is a marketing guy at heart, so he took exception to the fraud they were perpetrating upon hapless consumers. Our waitress bounced up.
"If happy hour is all day every day, isn't that just the regular price?"
She looked puzzled. "No, it's happy hour."
"But if the price is, say, five dollars for one ten ounce drink, and you have two for one drinks every day all day, isn't that just the regular price? Five dollars for twenty ounces?"
Her smile didn't dim. "No. It's happy hour. The second drink is free."
DH looked at me beseechingly. I was not going to help. He got himself into the argument with the bubble head, he could get himself out.
"Okay, but it's not a sale. See the food prices are the same every day all day, but they aren't a happy hour special. It's just the regular price. Because it's every day."
Waitress looked at me beseechingly, then tried again. "The drinks are the happy hour. Two for one." She smiled tightly. "Do you need a minute?"
I spoke. "Coke and eggrolls please. He's being difficult. You're being dense. This happy hour stinks. And I'm too hungry to listen to you two."
DH ordered. "Was I being difficult?"
"No, love. She was just definitely not over qualified for her job."
It's like I tell the grandkids (future me) - don't argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell who is who.
Anyway, this place makes the best Southwest eggrolls besides mine. It was still early evening, so we thought we might make happy hour. We shouldn't have been concerned, as this chain advertises that they have "Happy Hour All Day Every Day! 2 for 1 Drinks!"
DH is a marketing guy at heart, so he took exception to the fraud they were perpetrating upon hapless consumers. Our waitress bounced up.
"If happy hour is all day every day, isn't that just the regular price?"
She looked puzzled. "No, it's happy hour."
"But if the price is, say, five dollars for one ten ounce drink, and you have two for one drinks every day all day, isn't that just the regular price? Five dollars for twenty ounces?"
Her smile didn't dim. "No. It's happy hour. The second drink is free."
DH looked at me beseechingly. I was not going to help. He got himself into the argument with the bubble head, he could get himself out.
"Okay, but it's not a sale. See the food prices are the same every day all day, but they aren't a happy hour special. It's just the regular price. Because it's every day."
Waitress looked at me beseechingly, then tried again. "The drinks are the happy hour. Two for one." She smiled tightly. "Do you need a minute?"
I spoke. "Coke and eggrolls please. He's being difficult. You're being dense. This happy hour stinks. And I'm too hungry to listen to you two."
DH ordered. "Was I being difficult?"
"No, love. She was just definitely not over qualified for her job."
It's like I tell the grandkids (future me) - don't argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell who is who.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
TB tests
I tried to register for classes last week, but the University had thoughtfully put a hold on my student account because my TB skin test had expired. I was aware of this fact because I had ignored the six emails reminding me. I figured they had nothing on me because I was graduating. Stupid new degree ruined my well laid plans. I was supposed to go see my doctor for the test. This posed a minor problem. I don't have a "regular doctor", partly because I don't like going to the doctor, and partly because I refuse to acknowledge I live in Minnesota and having a steady doctor seems like an admission of guilt.
The only place that could squeeze me in was the community health clinic. The address wasn't in the part of town with the least amount of bars on the windows, but I figured my odds of getting shot at were low since it was early morning. Plus I am very intimidating. The lobby was pretty crowded. Two large women were arguing loudly about who had arrived first and thus who would get the earlier appointment. A man was rocking back and forth on the floor talking to himself. It got pretty quiet when I walked in the room; I assume it was my dashing good looks and had little to do with being the only Caucasian appearing female in the whole clinic. They looked me up and down, then went back to yelling. The check-in lady was Somalian, and she did not speak English well. I am American, and do not speak Somalian well. This posed a problem.
"I want a TB skin test."
"Form." She handed me a post-it note with name, address, and phone written on it. I dug a pen out of my purse, filled out the post-it, and tried again.
"I want a TB skin test."
"Meed need sure."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Meed need sure." Then she said something in Somalian.
"Ummmm...."
"NAME," she yelled. Apparently she was saying middle initial and was frustrated that I couldn't understand her accent. I haven't been yelled at for speaking English since I was in Prague.
The only place that could squeeze me in was the community health clinic. The address wasn't in the part of town with the least amount of bars on the windows, but I figured my odds of getting shot at were low since it was early morning. Plus I am very intimidating. The lobby was pretty crowded. Two large women were arguing loudly about who had arrived first and thus who would get the earlier appointment. A man was rocking back and forth on the floor talking to himself. It got pretty quiet when I walked in the room; I assume it was my dashing good looks and had little to do with being the only Caucasian appearing female in the whole clinic. They looked me up and down, then went back to yelling. The check-in lady was Somalian, and she did not speak English well. I am American, and do not speak Somalian well. This posed a problem.
"I want a TB skin test."
"Form." She handed me a post-it note with name, address, and phone written on it. I dug a pen out of my purse, filled out the post-it, and tried again.
"I want a TB skin test."
"Meed need sure."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Meed need sure." Then she said something in Somalian.
"Ummmm...."
"NAME," she yelled. Apparently she was saying middle initial and was frustrated that I couldn't understand her accent. I haven't been yelled at for speaking English since I was in Prague.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Somebody, slap me
Today I washed my hair with sulfate free shampoo and conditioner before I took my pampered puppy to the neighborhood dog park. We came home to our apartment in a restored early twentieth century home. I mopped the floors with environmentally friendly lemon oil soap, took out the recycling, and then composted the odds and ends from the veggies I was using to make dinner. Used my ridiculously expensive mixer and garlic press.
I cut fresh flowers from our front yard and weeded the garden some. I walked pup to the local grocery co-op to pick up marzipan - organic because it was all they had. Sampled local fruit and cheeses, then walked back home. Ironed a table runner and table cloth for dinner tonight.
Converted recipe measurements from metric to American because the recipe came from a friend in Germany. (Thanks, Shara!) Made homemade cake, ice cream, and coulis.
I was such a citified yuppie jerk today that I kind of wanted to punch myself. I wouldn't even have taken offense if someone else had done it for me. I totally had it coming.
I cut fresh flowers from our front yard and weeded the garden some. I walked pup to the local grocery co-op to pick up marzipan - organic because it was all they had. Sampled local fruit and cheeses, then walked back home. Ironed a table runner and table cloth for dinner tonight.
Converted recipe measurements from metric to American because the recipe came from a friend in Germany. (Thanks, Shara!) Made homemade cake, ice cream, and coulis.
I was such a citified yuppie jerk today that I kind of wanted to punch myself. I wouldn't even have taken offense if someone else had done it for me. I totally had it coming.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I'm on fire
I made pasta last night for dinner. Nothing fancy, just a little olive oil, basil, Parmesan, and black pepper. We were out of peppercorn, so I used the black pepper from the spice cabinet. It has two lids. One sprinkles. One pours.
Unbeknownst to me, I poured. One third of a cup of black pepper on my pasta. I tried to spoon some of it back into the bottle before it soaked up the olive oil but just ended up spilling it all over the counter and floor. Artemis tried to help by licking it off the floor, started sneezing violently, gave herself the hiccups from sneezing, then threw up. It was an omen that I ignored.
I hate wasting things. I still have a pair of jeans from high school that I can't bear to throw away even though the knees are ripped, the thighs are torn, and most of the buttocks region is worn so thin you can almost see through it. I can still wear them to work in the shop or to garden or to farm, so I keep them. I blame this trait for my subsequent actions.
I like spicy food, so I figured a little pepper wouldn't hurt me. No need to waste the pasta - fresh basil is still expensive this far north this time of year. I just added more Parmesan to balance out the pepperiness of the pasta. First bite, okay. Second bite, my nose started running. I didn't stop. DH came in to find me lying on the floor, coughing, tears streaming down my face, desperately fanning my mouth. The bowl was on the carpet next to me - empty.
He didn't even ask what happened. I can't decide if this is credit to his tolerance or to my ridiculousness. He just stepped over me, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a drink.
Incident over as far as I was concerned. I was wrong. I learned something at 5 am this morning. Apparently, when you eat a crap load of pepper in one sitting, in about 6-8 hours all of your mucous membranes, palms, and soles are attacked by small fire demons. My intestines were being charcoaled. It hurt to touch my feet against the blankets. You could have roasted marshmallows in my mouth. I seriously thought to myself "so this is how people spontaneously combust." I spent the day sucking on ice cubes and trying not to touch things.
I've cooled to a nice rolling boil now. Here's hoping that cold front moves in tonight.
Unbeknownst to me, I poured. One third of a cup of black pepper on my pasta. I tried to spoon some of it back into the bottle before it soaked up the olive oil but just ended up spilling it all over the counter and floor. Artemis tried to help by licking it off the floor, started sneezing violently, gave herself the hiccups from sneezing, then threw up. It was an omen that I ignored.
I hate wasting things. I still have a pair of jeans from high school that I can't bear to throw away even though the knees are ripped, the thighs are torn, and most of the buttocks region is worn so thin you can almost see through it. I can still wear them to work in the shop or to garden or to farm, so I keep them. I blame this trait for my subsequent actions.
I like spicy food, so I figured a little pepper wouldn't hurt me. No need to waste the pasta - fresh basil is still expensive this far north this time of year. I just added more Parmesan to balance out the pepperiness of the pasta. First bite, okay. Second bite, my nose started running. I didn't stop. DH came in to find me lying on the floor, coughing, tears streaming down my face, desperately fanning my mouth. The bowl was on the carpet next to me - empty.
He didn't even ask what happened. I can't decide if this is credit to his tolerance or to my ridiculousness. He just stepped over me, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a drink.
Incident over as far as I was concerned. I was wrong. I learned something at 5 am this morning. Apparently, when you eat a crap load of pepper in one sitting, in about 6-8 hours all of your mucous membranes, palms, and soles are attacked by small fire demons. My intestines were being charcoaled. It hurt to touch my feet against the blankets. You could have roasted marshmallows in my mouth. I seriously thought to myself "so this is how people spontaneously combust." I spent the day sucking on ice cubes and trying not to touch things.
I've cooled to a nice rolling boil now. Here's hoping that cold front moves in tonight.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Southern manners
Being born and raised a Southern girl comes with side effects.
I have a drawl that pops out when I am very happy, very mad, or surrounded by family (which usually brings on the first two conditions). I can drink sweet ice tea no matter what the weather is like outside. When I say "bless your heart" it can mean a hundred different things depending on the inflection. I am obsessive about writing thank you notes.
Last week I sat down with a cold glass of tea and wrote out my thank you notes for my recent graduation. I addressed them all, stamped them up, and piled them on the side table in the living room.
My thank you notes are usually awesome, by the way. You would totally know this if you had sent me a present or card. Linen paper, written with the quill and blue ink my little sis picked up for me in London, sealed with red sealing wax stamped with my initial. Oh yeah.
Except I ran out of linen paper for this batch and had to use off the shelf cardstock. Then I spilled tea all over them.
A blow-dryer on low heat totally evaporated the left over moisture, but they still looked rather unintentionally antique. I reasoned with myself that since it was only the envelopes, no one would notice. Scooped them up and cut myself on the edge. Shoot. Someone might notice the blood stains. Blotted off the blood as best I could, did a hazardous materials prayer (I'm pretty sure that's New Testament) over them, and sent them on their merry way.
My grandpa called me this evening to thank me for the note. He was so touched by it, he wanted to read it back to me. Red flags shot up everywhere. My grandpa is the best man I have ever known, but I wouldn't say he was sentimental.
"The back is tea-stained." Check. That I knew.
"You open the envelope, and the front of the card says 'Thank You'. You open the card and it reads ' Dear Grandma and Grandpa.'" He paused. "I suppose you wrote the rest in invisible ink or white out, because I can't seem to find the rest of the note."
I can hear my grandma in the background. "We already called your uncles and had them come down and look at it. Tell her that we talked it over and can't figure out how she can be so smart and a doctor and not finish a thank you note."
Frick. So much for Southern manners.
I have a drawl that pops out when I am very happy, very mad, or surrounded by family (which usually brings on the first two conditions). I can drink sweet ice tea no matter what the weather is like outside. When I say "bless your heart" it can mean a hundred different things depending on the inflection. I am obsessive about writing thank you notes.
Last week I sat down with a cold glass of tea and wrote out my thank you notes for my recent graduation. I addressed them all, stamped them up, and piled them on the side table in the living room.
My thank you notes are usually awesome, by the way. You would totally know this if you had sent me a present or card. Linen paper, written with the quill and blue ink my little sis picked up for me in London, sealed with red sealing wax stamped with my initial. Oh yeah.
Except I ran out of linen paper for this batch and had to use off the shelf cardstock. Then I spilled tea all over them.
A blow-dryer on low heat totally evaporated the left over moisture, but they still looked rather unintentionally antique. I reasoned with myself that since it was only the envelopes, no one would notice. Scooped them up and cut myself on the edge. Shoot. Someone might notice the blood stains. Blotted off the blood as best I could, did a hazardous materials prayer (I'm pretty sure that's New Testament) over them, and sent them on their merry way.
My grandpa called me this evening to thank me for the note. He was so touched by it, he wanted to read it back to me. Red flags shot up everywhere. My grandpa is the best man I have ever known, but I wouldn't say he was sentimental.
"The back is tea-stained." Check. That I knew.
"You open the envelope, and the front of the card says 'Thank You'. You open the card and it reads ' Dear Grandma and Grandpa.'" He paused. "I suppose you wrote the rest in invisible ink or white out, because I can't seem to find the rest of the note."
I can hear my grandma in the background. "We already called your uncles and had them come down and look at it. Tell her that we talked it over and can't figure out how she can be so smart and a doctor and not finish a thank you note."
Frick. So much for Southern manners.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Here piggie piggie....
I came across the most ridiculous news story I have heard in a year while flipping through the Wii news headlines. CNN and BBC had failed to pick this one up. Thank goodness for Nintendo.
"NY Man Arrested Buying Drugs with Pig"
How can you not read the article after a headline like that? I had to know more. Was the pig a pet and along for the drug deal? Was he paying for the drugs with the pig? What kind of drugs can you get with or for a pig? What kind of drug addict walks up to his dealer and says "I'm short on cash, but I have this pig....."? What kind of drug dealer accepts a pig as payment? Is this a sign that the economic crisis is worse than we thought? I mean, if drug dealers are bartering for food should we be worried?
The article went on to explain that man offered the pig and $10 as payment for a $50 bag of crack. The dealer accepted because he was going to eat the pig at a celebration for a relative getting out of jail. (I will pause whilst you insert your own jokes here.)
"While officers were arresting the suspects, someone took the pig. Police do not know if the men have lawyers."
How did the police not notice someone wandering up and stealing evidence? Particularly large, slaughtered, bacon-smelling evidence? Pigs are heavy even after they're slaughtered and are a rather awkward bloody shape. The guy couldn't have run fast with it, and I'm sure witnesses in New York would remember a man running down the street with a pig thrown over his shoulder.
Also, isn't it interesting that someone stole the pig and left the crack?
I would like to know since when the fair market value of a whole pig is $40? Granted, this was more of a black market pig, but I feel someone should update my butcher on current street value of pork. I googled whole pig prices; a small hog is about $180. The drug addict was getting ripped off. (Shocking, I know.)
I can solve the last mystery for the cops. I'm pretty confident they do not have lawyers. Luckily, the dealer has a family member getting out of jail who can recommend a bad one.
"NY Man Arrested Buying Drugs with Pig"
How can you not read the article after a headline like that? I had to know more. Was the pig a pet and along for the drug deal? Was he paying for the drugs with the pig? What kind of drugs can you get with or for a pig? What kind of drug addict walks up to his dealer and says "I'm short on cash, but I have this pig....."? What kind of drug dealer accepts a pig as payment? Is this a sign that the economic crisis is worse than we thought? I mean, if drug dealers are bartering for food should we be worried?
The article went on to explain that man offered the pig and $10 as payment for a $50 bag of crack. The dealer accepted because he was going to eat the pig at a celebration for a relative getting out of jail. (I will pause whilst you insert your own jokes here.)
"While officers were arresting the suspects, someone took the pig. Police do not know if the men have lawyers."
How did the police not notice someone wandering up and stealing evidence? Particularly large, slaughtered, bacon-smelling evidence? Pigs are heavy even after they're slaughtered and are a rather awkward bloody shape. The guy couldn't have run fast with it, and I'm sure witnesses in New York would remember a man running down the street with a pig thrown over his shoulder.
Also, isn't it interesting that someone stole the pig and left the crack?
I would like to know since when the fair market value of a whole pig is $40? Granted, this was more of a black market pig, but I feel someone should update my butcher on current street value of pork. I googled whole pig prices; a small hog is about $180. The drug addict was getting ripped off. (Shocking, I know.)
I can solve the last mystery for the cops. I'm pretty confident they do not have lawyers. Luckily, the dealer has a family member getting out of jail who can recommend a bad one.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Peeping Tommy
I was in The Mall today with my brother-in-law acting as a personal shopper. I love shopping for other people. It's like playing dress up with live dolls. Maybe I should toss away this whole doctor thing and be a professional shopper.
I had to utilize the facilities thanks to an extra large water I drank at lunch. I left BIL at the Holiday gas station store in the mall and took myself off to the loo. I was minding my own business when a head popped under the stall door and a small hand waved at me.
"Hello," piped a tiny voice.
This demands a question. How old is too old to bring your child of the opposite gender into the restroom with you? I'm going to take a stand and say that eight or nine is too old. If the kid knows about the difference in body parts and can wipe his or her own tushy, he or she can pee alone. Time the kid if need be, guard both exits with flaming swords, give explicit instructions about strangers, but for goodness' sake don't let them run around the opposite gender restroom sticking their head under stalls while you are taking care of your own business. It is uncalled for and disconcerting for the other patrons.
It is so disconcerting that they might grab sunscreen out of their purse and spray it at the head poking under the door. The kid might scream and cry. The patron might refuse to apologize since he or she felt the head should have stayed on its own side of the door and that sunscreen was a defensive move. The parent might become upset and yell. The situation could deteriorate and end with an argument that on one side was loud with an excellent lexicon and on the other had poor logic and a pitiful excuse for a vocabulary. This could result in disdain for the inept arguer who would storm out of the restroom child in tow muttering about rude Southerners.
It could happen.
I had to utilize the facilities thanks to an extra large water I drank at lunch. I left BIL at the Holiday gas station store in the mall and took myself off to the loo. I was minding my own business when a head popped under the stall door and a small hand waved at me.
"Hello," piped a tiny voice.
This demands a question. How old is too old to bring your child of the opposite gender into the restroom with you? I'm going to take a stand and say that eight or nine is too old. If the kid knows about the difference in body parts and can wipe his or her own tushy, he or she can pee alone. Time the kid if need be, guard both exits with flaming swords, give explicit instructions about strangers, but for goodness' sake don't let them run around the opposite gender restroom sticking their head under stalls while you are taking care of your own business. It is uncalled for and disconcerting for the other patrons.
It is so disconcerting that they might grab sunscreen out of their purse and spray it at the head poking under the door. The kid might scream and cry. The patron might refuse to apologize since he or she felt the head should have stayed on its own side of the door and that sunscreen was a defensive move. The parent might become upset and yell. The situation could deteriorate and end with an argument that on one side was loud with an excellent lexicon and on the other had poor logic and a pitiful excuse for a vocabulary. This could result in disdain for the inept arguer who would storm out of the restroom child in tow muttering about rude Southerners.
It could happen.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
18 times!
I started golfing just a few years ago. I haven't made it out very often since then because of my schedule and the ridiculous amount of winter they have in this state. Seriously, who needs seven months of snow? It freaking snowed yesterday up North. There is a frost warning tonight. It's June. Why do people live here?
I digress.
Every spring I pull out my clubs, my cute golf outfits, and matching golf shoes and tackle the executive par 3 course just north of us. (I feel like such a tool when I say that.) Every year I am disappointed in myself. It's a par 3 for goodness sake. I secretly think that my golf balls have been aqua-magnetized. They always go in the water. Always. Puddle, lake, pond, soggy fairway, moat around the sand castles - my ball will find it. You could dig wells based on where my ball lands.
This year was different. I have scored more named holes this year than I ever have. Double bogey - check. Bogey - check. Par - almost (see bogey). I haven't broken the water curse yet, but I have hope. I also have a secret plan to avoid all holes with water. Beverage cart, anyone?
P.S. Robin Williams does a sketch I think perfectly captures the spirit of golf.
I digress.
Every spring I pull out my clubs, my cute golf outfits, and matching golf shoes and tackle the executive par 3 course just north of us. (I feel like such a tool when I say that.) Every year I am disappointed in myself. It's a par 3 for goodness sake. I secretly think that my golf balls have been aqua-magnetized. They always go in the water. Always. Puddle, lake, pond, soggy fairway, moat around the sand castles - my ball will find it. You could dig wells based on where my ball lands.
This year was different. I have scored more named holes this year than I ever have. Double bogey - check. Bogey - check. Par - almost (see bogey). I haven't broken the water curse yet, but I have hope. I also have a secret plan to avoid all holes with water. Beverage cart, anyone?
P.S. Robin Williams does a sketch I think perfectly captures the spirit of golf.
Wanna trade?
I am often jealous of other people's lives. It is not because I dislike my own (it's pretty fabulous most days) but because of how different they are from my own.
My stylist friend, for example, is a beautiful girl who in the past year has dated a UFC fighter, a tattoo artist, a lawyer, and a drummer for a famous punk band. She went to jail the day before she met the President of the United States, was the stylist for a major concert tour, and lives pay-check to pay-check most of the time. Another friend has three beautiful children, married her college sweetheart, and works full-time as a nurse.
I know a guy in a professional improv group, a woman who designs sets for haute couture runway shows, and a woman who is in a different state or country every month consulting with businesses. I just met a guy taking a secret post in Washington D.C. for the next three years and a woman who is a specialist in alternative autism treatments.
I enjoy my life. I have a lot of fun and wouldn't change the decisions I've made that have brought me here. Sometimes though, I think it would be fun to be someone else for a week or so- to live a life completely different from mine with different responsibilities. Be a mom, a rock-star, a secret agent, or a comedian. Having a new set of problems and responsibilities would be a blast - at least for awhile.
My stylist friend, for example, is a beautiful girl who in the past year has dated a UFC fighter, a tattoo artist, a lawyer, and a drummer for a famous punk band. She went to jail the day before she met the President of the United States, was the stylist for a major concert tour, and lives pay-check to pay-check most of the time. Another friend has three beautiful children, married her college sweetheart, and works full-time as a nurse.
I know a guy in a professional improv group, a woman who designs sets for haute couture runway shows, and a woman who is in a different state or country every month consulting with businesses. I just met a guy taking a secret post in Washington D.C. for the next three years and a woman who is a specialist in alternative autism treatments.
I enjoy my life. I have a lot of fun and wouldn't change the decisions I've made that have brought me here. Sometimes though, I think it would be fun to be someone else for a week or so- to live a life completely different from mine with different responsibilities. Be a mom, a rock-star, a secret agent, or a comedian. Having a new set of problems and responsibilities would be a blast - at least for awhile.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Girls will be boys
When you're eight or nine, nothing makes you feel cooler than thinking you're getting away with something. Add to that an older cousin with little regard for age appropriate behavior, and one has a fabulous Saturday afternoon.
Pup and I stopped by my uncle's house to pick up the boys and go fishing. The five of us headed off over the hill to the catfish pond, poles slung over our shoulders. Had a brief run-in with the barbed wire fence that ended in ripping my last pair of non-holey jeans open. The boys and pup were running up ahead. I was being the responsible adult shouting things like "watch for snakes" and "no hitting each other in the head with your fishing poles".
It was about this point we ran into mud. Serious mud. Arkansas clay and a week of non-stop rain mud. The boys turned to warn me. It was hitting them mid-thigh, and they were thrilled when I waded in after them without hesitation. We slogged our way through losing shoes and fishing lures along the way. We made it to the pond, and I set up their rigs.
It has been a long time since I have been fishing with small children. For those of you considering it, I recommend eye protection. They got their lures stuck in the cattails, in the trees, in the dogs, in me, and in each other. Luckily for all involved, I had thought to crimp the barbs on the lures. I escaped with just a few scratches and one new scar. It's all right though. I hear chicks dig scars.
E. asked me if they could go swimming. I mulled it over. Not only was it forbidden by their parents and my grandparents, but a thunderstorm was brewing overhead. In my very best responsible adult voice, I gave them permission. I instructed them to strip off their white T-shirts first. I figured the boys would at least come out cleaner than when they went into the creek.
They jumped in and soon were begging me to follow suit. I rolled up my pants legs, knotted my T-shirt up, and in I went. We splashed; we swam; we had a mud wrestling match or five that devolved into a mud fight. We took turns painting each others' faces, backs, and stomachs with mud then ran through the woods pretending to be Indians. We caught bugs and one unhappy frog. We were filthy.
We grabbed our poles and snuck back through the rain across the pasture to the house, slipped though the barbed wire fence, and made it to the garden hose without getting caught. I sprayed the big chunks off the boys and out of their hair; I let them take turns spraying me down. Three times is two times too many to get blasted by icy water, but they all wanted a turn. I wrung out their shorts and shirts and sent them back home.
As we were finishing up our covert clean-up, the boys turned to me. The little guy who had come over to play with D. looked me up and down. "Girls aren't supposed to like getting dirty. Are you a boy?"
"She's not a boy or a girl. She's our cousin, dummy."
I heard their parents washed their clothes three times and still couldn't get the mud out. They sent the other little guy home with brown socks and underwear. My grandma pulled rocks out of her washing machine and dryer for two days from my clothes. I spent fifteen minutes getting the sticks, mud, and rocks out of my hair. It was totally worth it to get to be a kid again for an afternoon.
Pup and I stopped by my uncle's house to pick up the boys and go fishing. The five of us headed off over the hill to the catfish pond, poles slung over our shoulders. Had a brief run-in with the barbed wire fence that ended in ripping my last pair of non-holey jeans open. The boys and pup were running up ahead. I was being the responsible adult shouting things like "watch for snakes" and "no hitting each other in the head with your fishing poles".
It was about this point we ran into mud. Serious mud. Arkansas clay and a week of non-stop rain mud. The boys turned to warn me. It was hitting them mid-thigh, and they were thrilled when I waded in after them without hesitation. We slogged our way through losing shoes and fishing lures along the way. We made it to the pond, and I set up their rigs.
It has been a long time since I have been fishing with small children. For those of you considering it, I recommend eye protection. They got their lures stuck in the cattails, in the trees, in the dogs, in me, and in each other. Luckily for all involved, I had thought to crimp the barbs on the lures. I escaped with just a few scratches and one new scar. It's all right though. I hear chicks dig scars.
E. asked me if they could go swimming. I mulled it over. Not only was it forbidden by their parents and my grandparents, but a thunderstorm was brewing overhead. In my very best responsible adult voice, I gave them permission. I instructed them to strip off their white T-shirts first. I figured the boys would at least come out cleaner than when they went into the creek.
They jumped in and soon were begging me to follow suit. I rolled up my pants legs, knotted my T-shirt up, and in I went. We splashed; we swam; we had a mud wrestling match or five that devolved into a mud fight. We took turns painting each others' faces, backs, and stomachs with mud then ran through the woods pretending to be Indians. We caught bugs and one unhappy frog. We were filthy.
We grabbed our poles and snuck back through the rain across the pasture to the house, slipped though the barbed wire fence, and made it to the garden hose without getting caught. I sprayed the big chunks off the boys and out of their hair; I let them take turns spraying me down. Three times is two times too many to get blasted by icy water, but they all wanted a turn. I wrung out their shorts and shirts and sent them back home.
As we were finishing up our covert clean-up, the boys turned to me. The little guy who had come over to play with D. looked me up and down. "Girls aren't supposed to like getting dirty. Are you a boy?"
"She's not a boy or a girl. She's our cousin, dummy."
I heard their parents washed their clothes three times and still couldn't get the mud out. They sent the other little guy home with brown socks and underwear. My grandma pulled rocks out of her washing machine and dryer for two days from my clothes. I spent fifteen minutes getting the sticks, mud, and rocks out of my hair. It was totally worth it to get to be a kid again for an afternoon.
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