Curses

My last interview of the season was this week. I am suspicious that this interview was cursed.  

Courtesy of another two inches of snow and a flight that left ages before snowplows ventured out again, I had to drive on rather slick roads. Courtesy of the woman in the red Suburu who felt the need to drive recklessly in both of our lanes at 4:30 this morning, I missed my exit. Courtesy of my abysmal sense of direction, I got hopelessly lost immediately after this. All of this added up to having to park in the airport at the exhorbiant rate of twenty American dollars a day. I like to say it like that... American dollars. As opposed to un-American dollars. They only accept patriotic cash at my airport.  

(On a side note, I just found a bay leaf in my pocket. No idea why it's there.)  

Back to my disasterous trip. I made it to the airport a little too close to the check in deadline and had a lovely discussion with the counter man about the advisability of printing my boarding pass in spite of that. I dashed to my favorite security checkpoint and slipped past the brimming Casual Traveler aisle down the empty Expert Traveler aisle. A middle age couple in Hawaiian shirts proceeded to berate me for cutting in line. I tried to explain to them that it wasn't cutting - there were two lines. Like at the grocery store - just because my line is moving faster doesn't mean I cut. It means you picked the wrong line. And that you probably have a huge carry-on, a laptop in a separate bag still zipped up, shoes that don't slip off, none of your liquids out in a bag yet, a winter coat and a fleece still on, a huge purse, and a backpack that you are planning on stuffing your purse into to qualify for the "one carry-on, one personal item" rule. You earned the slow line. I said it in a much nicer way though.


Boarded the plane on time (hooray!), and then sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting on deicer. Deicer is an important part of the flying experience when one lives in The North. Except someone must have forgotten to place a refill order. They ran out of deicer. I would understand this if I were flying out of Hawaii; I imagine they have little to no need for deicer. Running out during a freak snow storm is acceptable.


However, I live in The North. We haven't seen grass in my neighborhood since November. There is a solid two feet of snow on my yard. My side road has been covered in snow and ice since December. I don't know if the pavement underneath even exists anymore. When we live in a place like this, there is no excuse for running out of deicer. We should have deicer stockpiled somewhere.


The only explanation: Cursed.

Incorrect measurements

I went to pick up my bridesmaid dress last week for my best friend's wedding. This is the second dress the store has ordered me for this wedding. The first one was a teensy bit too small in some areas, so I was forced to choose a new style so the dress would be in the store in time for the wedding.

It takes six weeks to ship the dress. Apparently, even though they are a national chain, they have every single dress ordered shipped via camel from Sri Lanka. My dress made it in, safe and sound.

I insisted upon trying the dress on before I left the store. The sales assistant assured me it would fit since she had helped me choose the dress the second time. She humored me though. I pulled off the plastic covering and slipped the dress over my head. Up went the zipper....and stopped. Three inches separated the two edges of the dress in the bust area. Are you friggin' kidding me?

I stormed out of the dressing room. "It's too small."

"No, it is the right size."

"It's too small." I showed the assistant the expanse of exposed skin on my side. She tsked and called over the seamstress. The seamstress agreed it was too small. Out came the tape measures. Over came the manager and another sales assistant.

" I do not understand. You wore this size last time you came in. We were going to take in the waist." The assistant looked me up and down. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Perhaps, you got the implants?"

I denied plastic surgery. She asked if I was sure. I replied I thought I would remember falling asleep in the operating room and waking up with an improved chest:hip ratio. The seamstress looked up at me.

"Your chest is a size 12. Your waist is size 4. This will never fit. We get bigger size and take in waist." The manager tutted. They couldn't get another new dress in store in time for the wedding. Perhaps I could try the sample size twelve? I thought of C. and agreed. The assistants scurried off to find the twelve and all the other dresses they had in that color in the store. I dutifully tried on the sample dress. It seemed a bit big, so I clinched my arms tightly to my sides.

Bridal stores are set up rather interestingly. There are a zillion mirrors surrounding small raised circular platforms. This allows everyone to see all angles of the dress they are contemplating. It also gives everyone an excellent view of the other people trying on dresses.

I came out of the dressing room and stood on the little platform while the women circled me.

"Raise your arms," the diminutive seamstress said.

I did as I was told.

The dress promptly fell to my hips.

The prospective groom sitting at the next platform over with his prospective wife wolf whistled.

We're going with a smaller size.

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.

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.

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.