I wish you hadn't asked me that.

I hate answering questions for people.

Because then other people feel the need to answer the questions too.

And I think the other people are wrong.

And then another murder gets tacked onto my rap sheet.

Which invites more questions.

It's a vicious cycle.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em

Today I went to the national tobacco document depository.

Up until a week ago, I didn't know we had a national tobacco document depository.

It's in a warehouse in a semi-bad neighborhood. There are no signs outside. The windows are darkened. Almost all of the interior doors have signs reading "keep out, authorized personnel only" just in case you were getting any ideas after finally finding the building and getting past the security. I think it's their way of welcoming you.

I had a special tour of the warehouse. They have over 800 million paper documents stored in the back. In paper boxes. Thank goodness for that no smoking in the workplace law - that back room looks like really good tinder.

The settlement made all of the records in the depository public. All of the records except those locked in the top secret room of which I was not allowed to learn the location. The tobacco company is paying for this, so they kindly gave the public computer systems to search the documents.

Except the documents aren't digital.

Thus, the computer system is used to look up the box the document is in, and then a worker has to go get the box for you. After you look through the box, they have to look at all the documents in that box to make sure you didn't sneak anything out (or in). Then the box is replaced in that serial killer haven warehouse.

Not a terrible system. At least you can search the documents by date, and when the search item is clicked on a preview of the document is typed up for you.

Except you can't. And it doesn't.

You can search for advertisements - and you get a list of all advertisements, advertising plans, internal advertising campaigns, etc for the tobacco company chosen. However, you don't know what is what. You just get a list of numbers that correlate to papers that are related to advertising. I think it's their way of saying "ha ha, suckers".

I did find by accident one handwritten note that said, "My kids want to be cigarette cartons for Halloween this year." Took me four boxes to find that one memo.

I have never appreciated Google more.

Not my toy story

I can't claim this story. I wish I could, but I am not male, nor do I have children, so I'm pretty sure people would call me out on it.

My friend is beautiful. Curly brunette hair, enormous blue eyes, thick dark eyelashes, and perfect teeth. He is one of the prettiest men I have ever met in person. (His prettiness is slightly exceeded by his brother-in-law's. I'm pretty sure minor Greek deities would stop to stare at that guy.) He is also married to one of the most adorable women I have ever met. Blonde, petite, gymnast. Nothing more needs to be said. They, as would be expected, have two ridiculously cute children - one blonde, one brunette. The whole family is absurdly gorgeous.

Last week, my beautiful friend took his beautiful child number one to see Toy Story at the movie theatre. To get into the spirit of things, they were both dressed as Buzz Lightyear. Beautiful child was super excited as only a three-almost-four year old can be.

They arrived at the theatre. The guy selling tickets looked them up and down.

"Two for Inglourious Basterds?"

One of those days.

I would have been very happy staying in bed this morning.

It was cold outside. It was raining. And it was very grey. I pulled myself out from under the pierzyna and padded down the hall. 54 degrees. Still no heat.

Hot shower, hot breakfast, hugged my puppy, headed to class.

Fell down the stairs. Moccasins and wet wood reduced the coefficient of friction to something close to zero. Skinned knees and grass stained tush are not a novel occurrence in my life, so I picked myself up and headed to the Jeep.

The Jeep had low air in its tires. The car was undriveable secondary to its run-in with the tree and subsequent hot-dog bun appearance. DH took the only umbrella because he secretly thinks it's funny when my hair gets really fuzzy in the rain. Plus blue is his favorite color, so he likes it when my fingers lose all circulation from the cold.

I walked in the rain.

There was a crazy woman walking on the sidewalk in front of me. I probably shouldn't call her crazy. She was wearing a walking boot, a purple trash bag wrapped around her waist, and a red nylon bag over her head. She was pushing an empty stroller. So instead of crazy we'll go with Susan. DH said she was probably homeless. I don't think she was homeless. It was a really nice trash bag.

I didn't want to pass her in case she got ideas about running me down with the stroller, so I trailed behind. It was a poor decision on my part.

You see, Mr. Bus Driver had the same idea I did. He was trailing behind Susan for about three blocks ~ just enough time for the rain to soak through my shoes and give my hair a nice halo effect. Then Mr. Bus Driver decided to blow past Susan and I on his merry way to the bus stop a block ahead of us.

There was a large muddy puddle along that route.

Susan laughed so hard at drenched, muddy, shivering me that she had to sit down in her stroller.

I laughed too. All I could think was "if only I had wrapped up in a trash bag."

Hot Dog anyone?

My mom has a story about her first brand new car. It was a Cougar. Sexy and shiny and all hers. She parked it under the only tree in the hospital parking lot so it would be shaded. Sometime during her shift, the tree fell on it. Hot dog bun car.

I parked my baby car under the lone tree by the sidewalk outside my house. It was still pretty warm, and I don't like the dash to get too hot. Sometime during my Southern food cooking spree a cold front moved in complete with straight line winds, and that idiotic tree fell on my car. Hot dog bun car.

Like mother, like daughter I suppose. Why couldn't I have inherited her height instead?