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.

Free at last

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Today

Today, I miss my cousin.

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.