Expiration dates

Goodness, what a long day it has been.

Up early this morning, reviewed a few more journal articles for my research, wrote a paper, went to a three hour meeting, had my fingerprints sent to the FBI, finished my epidemiology lab, talked to a gentleman about my master's thesis, and made bread.

More work, less play ~ I was quickly becoming a rather dull girl. Luckily for me, K. was available for a quick bite after work. After work was around 8 p.m., but I haven't been to bed before two for ages, so no worries. DH was off to kickball, and I was off to The Dirty Swine. (FYI: Murphy's Stout, thumbs up.)

I hadn't seen K. in ages. This was mainly secondary to the forbiddance of our friendship by a mutual friend. I hate it when people forbid me to do things. As I hadn't talked to him in longer than I hadn't seen her, I decided to risk the mafia hit and hang out with her. She's a doll. All you single gentlemen out there - she's cute, blonde, athletic, funny, and a PhD candidate -which means you are undoubtedly not good enough. It was fabulous, the perfect anecdote to an exhausting day.

It did make me wonder. If you make a ridiculous promise to a friend so he will be less uncomfortable and later become far less friendy due to a nuclear holocaust or a new girlfriend, are you required by the laws of friendship to keep the promise if it goes against logic? Is there a time frame on how long you have to keep him less uncomfortable, particularly if he has since dated multiple other girls and is in a committable relationship?

"Never forget"

I had a darling post all ready about lumberjack days ready to go, but I just read this terrible article in GQ.

You all know that I don't watch horror films because I have nightmares for ages afterward. I had the same trouble seeing the concentration camp in Czech and the Nazi memorabilia (I don't know if this is the appropriate word) in Germany. I had just awful dreams. I do not think I will be sleeping well tonight either.

The article discussed the atrocities committed by the Angkar regime under Pol Pot in Cambodia in the 70's. I had heard some rumblings about trials on CNN, but no one seemed to be getting all that worked up about it. We should be getting worked up about it. We are quick to attack any suspected Nazi guard, and it made front page news when Demjanjuk was deported for trial. The attacks in Darfur were all over the news.

Yet I had heard almost nothing about the 1.7 million people slaughtered in Cambodia. They killed doctors, engineers, and educated people preferentially at first. It seems they believed an uneducated population was a more easily controlled population. They beat babies and children against trees. They did things that caused me to become physically ill reading about.

I have no doubt that this is partially my fault. I probably heard a blip and let the story slip through my mind as I am wont. I don't really know what I want to say about this. I just think more people should know. We should be upset. Crimes like this are crimes against our humanity. The victims deserve recognition. They deserve to be remembered.

Why did the man cross the road?

The night started out a little later than I had planned since I left my license at a friend’s apartment. I know the law says they must card everyone, but seriously. I’m quite sure I no longer look under twenty-one, and I had no plans of drinking since I had an early date with a lumberjack the next day. On the plus side, being greeted with resounding cheers when you arrive at the pub does make you feel appreciated.

I was sipping my whiskey and Coke, minus the whiskey, and half listening to my new pseudo-British composer friend. The man is essentially getting a PhD in creativity. I'm not sure how one teaches (or studies) creativity, but I'm also not a liberal arts grad.

I was gazing out the window, pondering the terrible fashion choices of the girls waiting to get in, when I noticed a double decker party bus pull up across the street. Men started pouring out. My interest was peaked. A rather large man in a striped polo started weaving his way across the street - the very traffic intense four lane street. I had faith in him though, because he was holding up his hand to halt the traffic. Who wouldn't stop for that?

Apparently, a Prius will not. It must have been in hybrid mode and snuck up on him, 'cause it knocked the poor guy flat. He bounced back up like one of those clown punching dolls and slammed his hands on the hood of the Prius. It appeared that words were exchanged, then he continued his treacherous journey across the street. He made it just in time to meet up with his not-much-less intoxicated friends who had used the crosswalk.

The whole crew came pouring into the pub. It was a bachelor party. I love bachelor parties. I know some women go off on the whole "demoralizing, sexist, ridiculous, acting like teenagers, if you love me you won't" rant, but I think they are hilarious.

Where else will you find a grown man dancing with a half-inflated blow-up doll that he has managed to get glued onto his jeans? If you know the answer to that question, please, do not share.

Water conservation

I’m watching the farm this week while the in-laws are on vacation. Really, I’m escaping from the city. There’s only so much pollution I can inhale at a time before I start to yearn for cleaner air and open spaces.

Yesterday I learned how to turn the pivot (or giant water sprinkler for those non-farmers out there) on and off. It’s a messy muddy job, but I liked it. It made me feel like I was accomplishing something, even if I was just starting a motor and moving some pipe around.

This morning, it started raining….hard. We had thunder, lightening, the whole shebang. BIL called to tell me to turn the pivot off. He said I could wait until the rain let up, but I was determined to get it done right away. I had just finished a session on water usage in the U.S. and developing worlds and didn’t want to waste any water we could keep in the ground.

Ran outside in my blue scrub bottoms, purple tank top, and green irrigation boots. Ready for a fashion show, I was not. I quickly realized that this was not the most protective attire for rain when everything was drenched in about twenty seconds. Decided to take the four-wheeler for two reasons. One, I was soaked and didn't think it was a good idea to get the truck wet. Two, I was pretty sure I would get the truck stuck and did not look forward to explaining to my FIL why the tires were buried in two feet of mud.

I was speeding down the gravel road toward the path I thought I remembered going through the beans and corn to one of the pivot parts when I realized I couldn't see. The rain was stinging my face and arms, the mud was splattering my eyes and hair, and thunder was cracking overhead. I wiped my face with my cleanest dirty arm and took a left.

Turned off the engine for the pivot and headed to the water pump. Corn is sharp. Dripping wet knife sharp corn attacking my arms like tiny razorblades was a job hazard I had never considered. I made it to the pump, hopped off the four wheeler, and lost my irrigation boot in the calf deep mud puddle. It was still pouring rain, my other boot was half full of water, my hair was dripping mud and rain, and the pump was shooting icy water at my knees. I hopped on one foot and tried to convince the boot it really wanted to be on my foot.

I pulled....and pulled....and pulled. Nothing. I gave one last huge yank, and the boot came loose with a disgusting schlepping sound. I would have celebrated, but I was busy summersaulting backwards into the other deeper mud puddle. I landed flat on my back, boot in hand. The mud wasted no time in letting me know that it wanted me to stay by oozing over my stomach and legs.

I struggled out of the mire still holding my boot, stood in front of the icy spray to rinse off a bit, flipped the pump switch, and clambered back onto the four wheeler. I made it back to the house and came in through the basement so I would track mud on the least amount of floor necessary. Pup came bounding down the stairs (she escaped her kennel, the brat), took one look at me, and backed up the stairs barking and growling. I caught a glimpse of myself as I was getting in the shower. (Clothed. I had to get some of the mud off somehow.)

I was a total combo.

Corn

Corn freaks me out.

Not when you can buy it in canned, frozen, or cobbed form mind you. Not when it's tiny corn plants about knee high. Not at harvest time when the stalks are all golden and crisp. No, it freaks me out when it is growing in the field and is taller than me. I totally get why Stephen King wrote the children of the corn story.

Rows and rows of green stalks towering over my head and I can't see through more than three rows or so. I can hear the rustling and whispering of the wind in the leaves (or of the multiple serial killers out to get me that I am convinced are hiding four rows over just out of sight). If it's a very still day, I can hear the creaking and groaning of the corn growing. You shouldn't be able to hear a plant grow. That's creepy. Sometimes at night, I feel like the corn is watching me or something in the corn is watching me.

I know it's silly.....but I'm still sleeping with the doors barricaded.

Vroom vroom

I like things to be clean - very clean. I used to clean my car once a week. Vacuum twice a day. Wipe down the bathroom once a day. Dishes done after every meal. I still lost things as I tend to be rather absent minded, but they were lost in a clean environment. I have had to let this go since I started living with DH. It has been a struggle.

He is not messy per se. He is just very male. (I beg forgiveness from all the neat and tidy males out there. The two of you have my deepest apologies.) I bring this up not to chastise him. He is darling in many, many ways. It is instead because of the experience I just had cleaning the car.

Leather was conditioned. Metal was polished. Q-tips had been used to clean the vents and knobs. All that was left to do was vacuum. Normally, I prefer to vacuum before the detail cleaning, but I was willing to wait as DH was cleaning the Jeep and wanted to vacuum it too. I never stand in the way of a man cleaning. So I waited.

Pup was hiding in the floorboard of the car. She hates the vacuum. She once fit herself on a three inch windowsill between the curtain and the glass trying to hide from the satanic machine that was sucking up all of her morning stick chewing paraphernalia. The devil machine being outside instead of in the house was really messing with her. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to avoid brushing her by sucking up all her loose fur that one time. I think it scarred her.

DH finished and went off to get his fishing rods ready or some such nonsense leaving me with the vacuum. There was a funny grinding noise when I turned it on, and it smelled slightly like it was on fire. I didn't see any smoke, so I kept vacuuming. The noise got louder. The smell got stronger. Pup ran away.

I flipped the little red switch and tumped the vacuum upside down to see what all the ruckus was about. Belts looked good. No sticks stuck. The side gear looked a little funny.....so I poked at it with my finger.

I have no fingerprint on that finger anymore. Burned it clear off -nothing but shiny scar now. When I rob a jewelry store, that's the finger I'm going to use on the gun trigger. The vacuum had been spinning so fast that it melted the side gear. Melted it. The whole stinking tube part had welded itself onto the side and bottom. The brush bristles had glommed into the gear and tube.

I can't blame this on DH. I really wish I could though. If only I were okay with living in a mess....I would still have my fingerprint.

***I have never tried to vacuum my dog. I do not advocate vacuuming dogs. Dogs should be loved and cuddled and stuff. Did you hear that PETA? ***

Weaknesses

I have many weaknesses. Fabulous shoes. Handsome men. Puppies. Couture. Some I indulge, some I avoid for the sake of my health and my bank account.

I have a distinct weakness for watermelon. Every summer, I buy the smallest largest seeded watermelon that I can find. Pop it in the fridge; let it get ice cold. Then comes my downfall. It happened again today.

I eat a slice and then one more. DH doesn't care for watermelon, and I can't let it to go to waste. So I have another slice....and another.

DH came home and found me passed out on the lawn in a patch of sunshine, watermelon rinds scattered around me. I'm sticky. I'm hot. My face is stained red. I'm clutching my very full, very swollen stomach. It hurts to move.

"I thought you said last year you weren't going to eat the whole watermelon in one sitting again," he says as he steps over the mess that is me.

I close my eyes.

It was totally worth it.

High Treason

I always secretly wanted to be a Grinch or a Scrooge, but I love holidays. All holidays - I don't discriminate. I'm Irish on St. Patty's Day and Mexican on Cinco De Mayo. I love having people at my house celebrating. I think I get this from my grandmother - this and my flair for the dramatic.

Growing up, we spent the Fourth eating BBQ, watermelon, and homemade ice cream. Come dark, we'd head up the hill and camp out on the grass to watch the fireworks. We were serious about lighting fireworks. No wimpy matches or cigarette lighters for us. Blowtorches, ladies and gents. That really gets the job done.

This year I was stuck in the North, so I only heard about the Butterfinger ice cream and the Roman candles at home. To ease my homesickness, we had people over for grilling and ice cream. The burgers rocked. Cajun spices, sharp cheddar cheese, barbeque sauce, bacon, tomatoes fresh from the garden, Romaine, fried onions, kaiser buns - heck yeah. I don't eat brats, but I heard they were good too. Processed meat freaks me out. Pound cake, ice cream, berries, whipped cream. We celebrate treason in style.

Prior to the fireworks, M. and E. announced their engagement. While I'm not sure Independence Day is the most apt day for that, it was still very nice. They've been together eight years - several years longer than DH and I have known each other. Some people wade into things. I'd rather leap.

Showdown

I was driving to the park a couple of days ago and noticed a flash of baby powder blue out of the corner of my eye. It was a rather Rubenesque woman on a Vespa scooter cruising along in the wrong direction in the bike lane. Her matching helmet was strapped snugly beneath her chins. Her pink t-shirt read "fat people are harder to kidnap". In her right hand was a 44 oz Coke. Her left hand was clutching the handlebar and a leash. Her Golden Retriever was trotting along on the sidewalk next to her.

I sighed to myself over the sad state of the American obesity problem and waited for the light to turn green. Gazing ahead, I noticed a man coming the correct direction in the bike lane. He was driving a motorized wheelchair. Not a boring black one - a blue one, swathed in Veteran bumper stickers, a little American flag waving from one handle bar, and an orange wind tunnel flag flapping from the other. He had on one of those floppy round fishing hats and huge black sun glasses.

I shot off a quick prayer for the light to stay red and rolled down my window. It was the weirdest game of chicken I have ever seen. Five miles an hour tops, and neither one of them would give.

They both rolled to a stop inches from each other. The screaming began, obscenities were hurled, and the Vespa lady started getting pretty red and out of breath. She was waving her arms, yelling that he needed to move his blankety blank wheelchair out of her way because she wasn't driving in traffic. He yelled back that his wheelchair couldn't jump the curb, and he couldn't very well get out and push it over the bump so she should move her ....large bottom. The dog started barking, circled the wheelchair guy a couple of times, and got his leash hopelessly tangled in the wheel spokes. Her helmet started sliding forward into her eyes.

The light turned green. No cars moved. Everyone was watching the battle of the bike lane. Someone from the back started honking (they obviously couldn't see the drama), and we all drove away.

We came back from the park and there was a spilled Coke and what looked like a piece of orange flag on the side of the road.