More signs that I am not popular:
1. The t-shirt my mom got me in Nashville that says "Not Popular"
2. Even the missionaries and Jehovah's Witnesses don't knock on my door.
3. My 4-year-old daughter has as many blog followers as I do.
4. The ladies I work with at church keep giving me fake addresses so they can have meetings without me.
5. I've started to enjoy a certain companionable silence with the ants that are out by my pool.
6. I left my diary sitting out in the open and nobody wanted to read it.
7. Nobody in this whole wide world has named a baby after me. Hizzigrelda happens to be a wonderful name, and really, it could work for a boy or a girl, so there's no excuse.
8. I played hide and seek with my kids Saturday morning and nobody came to find me until they got hungry for dinner.
9. I feel left out when my foot falls asleep without the rest of me.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
World Domination
If you will kindly take a moment to scroll down to the bottom of this page and look at my ClusterMap on the left hand side, you will get a lot more out of this post.
Having scrolled down as directed, I'm sure you can see that I have many friends, indicated by the numerous red dots on my ClusterMap. While I love my American friends, I have been particularly delighted to see that I have also acquired friends in Australia, Saudi Arabia, Russia and England. And if you think I had to Google a world map to identify those countries marked by my red dots, you're wrong. I used Yahoo. So, to my new international friends I say: G'day, marhaba, привет, and hello. And I also say, this post is taking a lot longer to write than usual, since I have to keep looking things up.
I'm guessing you're not all that surprised that word of my dry wit and robust writing style has leaked across the oceans, but we musn't ignore that possiblity that my international friends stumbled upon my blog by accident and have no intention of ever coming back.
Yeah, right! That was just a joke. Of course it was my writing, duh!
So, dear international friends, declare yourselves and your intentions. Are you fair weather friends who only visit once, or will you be around through thick and thin, which is an American idiom meaning through foul weather or fair, which is another idiom meaning never, ever leave me...I am desperate for your friendship. I hereby swear that if you continue your faithful readership I will include more proper language in future posts, dear English friend. I will dress in my most modest attire when writing, in deference to my esteemed colleague from Saudi Arabia. I will immediately throw some shrimp on the barby for my Aussie mate. And finally, I will knit a pair of extra warm mittens to send to my Russian compatriot (just as soon as I learn to knit and update the prescription on my glasses so I can see to do so. Cataracts.)
To my 5 regular readers from Arizona (all of whom are related to me, btw): this is a great service opportunity for you. All you have to do is write a rough draft of a nice comment for me, then look online to translate your comment into another language, then post it to make me think that I am, in fact, on my way to world blogging domination, as well as perhaps the world's longest run-on sentence.
Having scrolled down as directed, I'm sure you can see that I have many friends, indicated by the numerous red dots on my ClusterMap. While I love my American friends, I have been particularly delighted to see that I have also acquired friends in Australia, Saudi Arabia, Russia and England. And if you think I had to Google a world map to identify those countries marked by my red dots, you're wrong. I used Yahoo. So, to my new international friends I say: G'day, marhaba, привет, and hello. And I also say, this post is taking a lot longer to write than usual, since I have to keep looking things up.
I'm guessing you're not all that surprised that word of my dry wit and robust writing style has leaked across the oceans, but we musn't ignore that possiblity that my international friends stumbled upon my blog by accident and have no intention of ever coming back.
Yeah, right! That was just a joke. Of course it was my writing, duh!
So, dear international friends, declare yourselves and your intentions. Are you fair weather friends who only visit once, or will you be around through thick and thin, which is an American idiom meaning through foul weather or fair, which is another idiom meaning never, ever leave me...I am desperate for your friendship. I hereby swear that if you continue your faithful readership I will include more proper language in future posts, dear English friend. I will dress in my most modest attire when writing, in deference to my esteemed colleague from Saudi Arabia. I will immediately throw some shrimp on the barby for my Aussie mate. And finally, I will knit a pair of extra warm mittens to send to my Russian compatriot (just as soon as I learn to knit and update the prescription on my glasses so I can see to do so. Cataracts.)
To my 5 regular readers from Arizona (all of whom are related to me, btw): this is a great service opportunity for you. All you have to do is write a rough draft of a nice comment for me, then look online to translate your comment into another language, then post it to make me think that I am, in fact, on my way to world blogging domination, as well as perhaps the world's longest run-on sentence.
Monday, August 17, 2009
My Memory Faileth Me...
...which is not surprising, since my "About Me" paragraph reveals that I am 98 years old. This is the story I told at a recent gathering with my extended family:
"Did you guys know that when we lived out in the boonies I found a rattlesnake curled up outside the front door one morning? The kids were scared to death, and so was I, but I had to do something, so I got a shovel and whacked it's head right off..."
At this point in the story Hubby peers in my direction with a quizzical look on his face. "Did you just say that you killed that rattlesnake?"
"Yeah, don't you remember it?"
"I remember it alright. I remember it because I killed it."
I mulled that one over for a minute, until I realized that he was right. It was all coming back to me now - how I cowered inside with the kids while Hubby killed the snake.
How weird. I totally thought it was me.
I wonder what other fiction my mind has made up.
With that in mind, I've decided to forgive the following unfortunate incidents, just in case they never really happened:
1. The day Hubby taped over the birth of our son with an episode of Ellen
2. All the times my so-called "friends" FORCED me onto roller coasters, even though they know I am afraid of heights. They always convince me it will be fun, but it never is.
3. The first time my oldest child said, "Mom, don't do that in public"
4. The day my brother-in-law played his wedding video at a family gathering and kept rewinding to the scene where I attempt the booty shake, giving everyone a jolly laugh at my expense.
5. The time that Deal or No Deal passed on me as a contestant even though I left my 4-year-old daughter in the hospital in order to keep a video-conference-call appointment with them. Hey, I'm not proud of it, it's just something that happened.
6. The doctor who made me wear a neck brace to school for three days (in junior high!) before he called my parents and said, never mind, I didn't need it after all.
It's going to be hard to think of what to do with all the time I have on my hands now that I'm not nursing all these grudges anymore. I guess I could always make up some new memories.
"Did you guys know that when we lived out in the boonies I found a rattlesnake curled up outside the front door one morning? The kids were scared to death, and so was I, but I had to do something, so I got a shovel and whacked it's head right off..."
At this point in the story Hubby peers in my direction with a quizzical look on his face. "Did you just say that you killed that rattlesnake?"
"Yeah, don't you remember it?"
"I remember it alright. I remember it because I killed it."
I mulled that one over for a minute, until I realized that he was right. It was all coming back to me now - how I cowered inside with the kids while Hubby killed the snake.
How weird. I totally thought it was me.
I wonder what other fiction my mind has made up.
With that in mind, I've decided to forgive the following unfortunate incidents, just in case they never really happened:
1. The day Hubby taped over the birth of our son with an episode of Ellen
2. All the times my so-called "friends" FORCED me onto roller coasters, even though they know I am afraid of heights. They always convince me it will be fun, but it never is.
3. The first time my oldest child said, "Mom, don't do that in public"
4. The day my brother-in-law played his wedding video at a family gathering and kept rewinding to the scene where I attempt the booty shake, giving everyone a jolly laugh at my expense.
5. The time that Deal or No Deal passed on me as a contestant even though I left my 4-year-old daughter in the hospital in order to keep a video-conference-call appointment with them. Hey, I'm not proud of it, it's just something that happened.
6. The doctor who made me wear a neck brace to school for three days (in junior high!) before he called my parents and said, never mind, I didn't need it after all.
It's going to be hard to think of what to do with all the time I have on my hands now that I'm not nursing all these grudges anymore. I guess I could always make up some new memories.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Debunking a Myth
All my life I've been told to keep a notebook by my bed so I can write down all the great ideas that come to me at night. Apparently, 98.3% of all genius inventions, best-selling novels and delicious new recipes come to people in the dead of night, when their subconscious is busy being way smarter and more creative than their conscious self ever could.
I've been keeping a night notebook for several years now, maybe a few months, or like a week, and I think I have some real winners so far:
Idea #1: Create a cell phone application that allows calorie conscious folks to weigh their meat before they eat it to make sure it's the appropriate 3 oz. I realize that this involves putting raw meat on the face of your cell phone, but it's worth the risk. Besides, who has room on their kitchen counter for those pesky little scales?
Idea #2: Illegible
Idea #3: Bring back the Swatch watch. I realize kids these days don't wear watches anymore, what with the cell phones and all, but it's time for a comeback. Besides, I'm still bitter that I never had one when I was a teenager, so this is my chance to work through those emotions.
Idea #4: Become a ghost hunter, helping people rid their houses of spooky apparitions. I'm pretty sure this one came to me on a Friday night after a particularly absorbing episode of Ghost Whisperer. Of course, I used to pee my pants just playing hide-n-seek, but I'm pretty sure I've outgrown that since it last happened. I mean, that was way back in December.
Idea #5: Make and sell my parents' homemade diaper rash cream. I would tell you what it is, but the recipe is top secret and we may file for a patent. Not too many people can say they're in the business of healing butts, so this idea is really at the top of my list. Actually, my sister thought of this idea, but the memory of her telling me has become so fuzzy that it's as if I dreamt it, so I assume I own the rights to the plan now.
There are quite a few more ideas in my notebook, each one as compelling as those listed above. I guess I'm just wondering, though - if my subconscious really is smarter and more creative than my conscious self, do I really have anything else to look forward to in my life?
I think I'll put an end to it all by mixing up a lethal combination of Pop Rocks and soda.
I've been keeping a night notebook for several years now, maybe a few months, or like a week, and I think I have some real winners so far:
Idea #1: Create a cell phone application that allows calorie conscious folks to weigh their meat before they eat it to make sure it's the appropriate 3 oz. I realize that this involves putting raw meat on the face of your cell phone, but it's worth the risk. Besides, who has room on their kitchen counter for those pesky little scales?
Idea #2: Illegible
Idea #3: Bring back the Swatch watch. I realize kids these days don't wear watches anymore, what with the cell phones and all, but it's time for a comeback. Besides, I'm still bitter that I never had one when I was a teenager, so this is my chance to work through those emotions.
Idea #4: Become a ghost hunter, helping people rid their houses of spooky apparitions. I'm pretty sure this one came to me on a Friday night after a particularly absorbing episode of Ghost Whisperer. Of course, I used to pee my pants just playing hide-n-seek, but I'm pretty sure I've outgrown that since it last happened. I mean, that was way back in December.
Idea #5: Make and sell my parents' homemade diaper rash cream. I would tell you what it is, but the recipe is top secret and we may file for a patent. Not too many people can say they're in the business of healing butts, so this idea is really at the top of my list. Actually, my sister thought of this idea, but the memory of her telling me has become so fuzzy that it's as if I dreamt it, so I assume I own the rights to the plan now.
There are quite a few more ideas in my notebook, each one as compelling as those listed above. I guess I'm just wondering, though - if my subconscious really is smarter and more creative than my conscious self, do I really have anything else to look forward to in my life?
I think I'll put an end to it all by mixing up a lethal combination of Pop Rocks and soda.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
6 Words or Less
This year in groups of six:
Been through 3 vacuums so far
Kicked addiction to spider solitaire...sorta
Football stinks. Carpooling at 5:30 am
Can't dive, still plug my nose
Writing Group is obviously not helping
Wrote iphone app - a whoopee cushion
Didn't spank kids, but wanted to
Working from home - new co-workers loud
Bought PedEgg, need to use it
Writer's block caused this lame blog
Next post better, on my honor
At least you know I can count
oh, whoops
P.S. There were 11 truths in this post and 1 untruth. It's up to you to discover which one isn't true.
Been through 3 vacuums so far
Kicked addiction to spider solitaire...sorta
Football stinks. Carpooling at 5:30 am
Can't dive, still plug my nose
Writing Group is obviously not helping
Wrote iphone app - a whoopee cushion
Didn't spank kids, but wanted to
Working from home - new co-workers loud
Bought PedEgg, need to use it
Writer's block caused this lame blog
Next post better, on my honor
At least you know I can count
oh, whoops
P.S. There were 11 truths in this post and 1 untruth. It's up to you to discover which one isn't true.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
My sweet spouse used to have an addiction to the Home Shopping Network. I say "used to" because he recently signed up for a 'Break Your Shopping Addiction' self-help book of the month club, for the ridiculously low price of only $19.95 per month. I think it's really helping. I mean, I used to be on a first name basis with our UPS lady (Gregorina Estella), but now she doesn't even wave when she drives by. It's like she doesn't even care about our friendship anymore.
The truth is, no boxes from HSN have arrived at our house for over a year, so hubby doesn't deserve my teasing, but there you have it. A girl has to blog about something, and today that something is Tattooage. (Pronounced tattoo-ahj). Tattooage is a form of wall decor - basically large stickers that you put on your wall to create your own special mural. I have never wanted tattooage or been tempted by the tattooage specials on HSN. Nevertheless, for Christmas 2007 I received a large box of it. Imagine my delighted surprise when I opened a box full of Tattooage monkeys, palm trees and vines. Why hadn't I thought to put that on my Christmas list in the first place?
Unfortunately, I could never decide whether to display my monkeys in the dining room or the formal living room, so I just taped the box back up and stashed it on a shelf in my son's closet. For safekeeping. While I decided where to use it.
Fast forward to Christmas 2008. Hubby is rummaging through the house, and up in my son's closet he finds a large box of unopened Tattooage. "Oh," he berates himself, "how could I have forgotten to give my sweetie her best present of all last year?" You can guess where this is going, but for suspense imagine some spine-tingling music playing in the background right now.
Christmas Day 2008 - imagine my delighted surprise when I, yet again, open a large box of Tattooage. "Do you like it?" hubby asks.
"Of course, " I say sweetly. "I also liked it last year when you gave me this same thing."
Okay, this is "Hubby", and I've had enough. She did not say anything 'sweetly' when she opened that box. She fell off the couch laughing and said, "I didn't want this last year when you gave it to me, and I still don't want it!" But did she throw it away? No! She put it right back up in the closet, secretly hoping, I'm sure, that I'll give it to her again this year.
We agree on one thing, at least. Tattooage could end up being a real money saver for our family. Thank you, HSN.
The truth is, no boxes from HSN have arrived at our house for over a year, so hubby doesn't deserve my teasing, but there you have it. A girl has to blog about something, and today that something is Tattooage. (Pronounced tattoo-ahj). Tattooage is a form of wall decor - basically large stickers that you put on your wall to create your own special mural. I have never wanted tattooage or been tempted by the tattooage specials on HSN. Nevertheless, for Christmas 2007 I received a large box of it. Imagine my delighted surprise when I opened a box full of Tattooage monkeys, palm trees and vines. Why hadn't I thought to put that on my Christmas list in the first place?
Unfortunately, I could never decide whether to display my monkeys in the dining room or the formal living room, so I just taped the box back up and stashed it on a shelf in my son's closet. For safekeeping. While I decided where to use it.
Fast forward to Christmas 2008. Hubby is rummaging through the house, and up in my son's closet he finds a large box of unopened Tattooage. "Oh," he berates himself, "how could I have forgotten to give my sweetie her best present of all last year?" You can guess where this is going, but for suspense imagine some spine-tingling music playing in the background right now.
Christmas Day 2008 - imagine my delighted surprise when I, yet again, open a large box of Tattooage. "Do you like it?" hubby asks.
"Of course, " I say sweetly. "I also liked it last year when you gave me this same thing."
Okay, this is "Hubby", and I've had enough. She did not say anything 'sweetly' when she opened that box. She fell off the couch laughing and said, "I didn't want this last year when you gave it to me, and I still don't want it!" But did she throw it away? No! She put it right back up in the closet, secretly hoping, I'm sure, that I'll give it to her again this year.
We agree on one thing, at least. Tattooage could end up being a real money saver for our family. Thank you, HSN.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Spam It Up
I've noticed that a lot of bloggers do giveaways. I've also noticed that a lot of bloggers post photos on their blogs. Today I am killing two birds with one stone.
I have a thorn in my side, and it is this can of Spam. It has been in my "pantry" (which is really just a glorified cupboard and the bane of my existence) for, well, a long time. Happily, I still have 23 more years until it expires.
I have no idea how it came to be in my possession. I'm pretty sure I didn't buy it. All I know is, every night when I open the cupboard to figure out what to make for dinner, there it is. Staring at me, hope in its little metal eyes, thinking, "Maybe tonight is the night that she will choose me." It's starting to creep me out.
Plus, I do feel sorry for the little guy. I mean, how would you feel if someone stole your name and made it synonymous with the most vile and hated form of e-mail around? It's the same as if your mom would have named you Emo. (Not that there's anything wrong with being Emo, it's just not that great as a first name).
I have tried to think of something to do with my can of Spam, but I'm drawing a blank. There is nothing related to Spam in my Better Homes & Gardens cookbook. Of course, my new favorite place to go for recipes is my sister-i-l Connie's awesome blog (you can click through from My Blog List). This is because I once made her sweet and sour pork and all six people in my family liked it, which never happens. And while she has lots of delicious recipes on her blog, there are none (yet) for Spam, so I'm still stuck.
So finally I get to the giveaway part. Leave me a comment with your best (edible) idea on how I can use my can of Spam. The best recipe will win - you guessed it - their very own can of Spam, plus a collection of the 3+ recipes I may or may not receive. (I promise to buy you a fresh can and not send you the old one from my cupboard).
The winner will be chosen based on scores in three different categories: 1) Does the recipe involve Spam? Score 100,000,000 points if it does, zero if it does not. 2) Is the recipe edible? Score 18,000 if yes, zero if no. 3) Which recipe does the writer of this blog randomly think is the best? Score 2 if I choose yours, and 1 if I do not.
P.S. Did you like my photo?
P.P.S. Don't forget to comment with your recipe!
Monday, July 6, 2009
DST, It's All The Rage
Husbands, wives, take note: I have created a remarkable solution to all of your marital conflict. Not that you have any. I know most homes are filled with mainly peace and love, but just on the off-chance...
Statistically speaking, what causes the most discord in a marriage? Money, work, children? Wrong! It's snuggling, the age old conflict: one spouse likes to snuggle and the other does not.
This issue came to my attention when I was counseling two unnamed individuals recently. Let's just call them Indycay and Eansay for simplicity's sake. And no, I am not a professional counselor, but that doesn't seem to stop people from seeking my sage advice at no cost to themselves.
Indycay told me that she is a snuggler and Eansay is not. Neither would budge from their position. Eansay gave Indycay the nostril flare of total rejection. Indycay responded by sighing forcefully through her nose, an ancient Tibetan insult. A ferocious fight soon ensued with insults like "You non-snuggler!" and "You snuggle freak!" being flung around. It was very sad. I knew I must put an immediate stop to it.
So, I did what any good counselor would do. I powered up my laptop and Googled 'snuggling' to see what kind of advice I could find. Unfortunately, my web filter blocked me from viewing any of the content that came up. (I have a very strong filter. It also blocks me from Ebay and Amazon, but I believe my husband may have manually added those to the block list. That's a fight for another day).
Since I could get no help from the internet, I decided to use good old-fashioned brain power to come up with a solution, and that is just what I did. My solution was so good that I trademarked it immediately. Sure, that caused a little delay in my counseling with Indycay and Eansay, but the royalties will be worth it. My solution is called DST (imagine a tiny TM after that, because I can't figure out how to insert those little characters). DST stands for Designated Snuggle Time. It means that you designate ten minutes before bed to snuggle, and then you are free to turn your back and start snoring with no recriminations. Genius!
Indycay and Eansay have been using DST for two days now, and I've noticed a marked improvement in their relationship. For example, Indycay has stopped posting photos of Eansay popping his zits on YouTube, and Eansay has begun calling Indycay by her real name instead of 'Spawn of the Devil'. I feel pretty good about that.
(With my apologies to all the REAL counselors out there. Ummm, and Indycay and Eansay)
Statistically speaking, what causes the most discord in a marriage? Money, work, children? Wrong! It's snuggling, the age old conflict: one spouse likes to snuggle and the other does not.
This issue came to my attention when I was counseling two unnamed individuals recently. Let's just call them Indycay and Eansay for simplicity's sake. And no, I am not a professional counselor, but that doesn't seem to stop people from seeking my sage advice at no cost to themselves.
Indycay told me that she is a snuggler and Eansay is not. Neither would budge from their position. Eansay gave Indycay the nostril flare of total rejection. Indycay responded by sighing forcefully through her nose, an ancient Tibetan insult. A ferocious fight soon ensued with insults like "You non-snuggler!" and "You snuggle freak!" being flung around. It was very sad. I knew I must put an immediate stop to it.
So, I did what any good counselor would do. I powered up my laptop and Googled 'snuggling' to see what kind of advice I could find. Unfortunately, my web filter blocked me from viewing any of the content that came up. (I have a very strong filter. It also blocks me from Ebay and Amazon, but I believe my husband may have manually added those to the block list. That's a fight for another day).
Since I could get no help from the internet, I decided to use good old-fashioned brain power to come up with a solution, and that is just what I did. My solution was so good that I trademarked it immediately. Sure, that caused a little delay in my counseling with Indycay and Eansay, but the royalties will be worth it. My solution is called DST (imagine a tiny TM after that, because I can't figure out how to insert those little characters). DST stands for Designated Snuggle Time. It means that you designate ten minutes before bed to snuggle, and then you are free to turn your back and start snoring with no recriminations. Genius!
Indycay and Eansay have been using DST for two days now, and I've noticed a marked improvement in their relationship. For example, Indycay has stopped posting photos of Eansay popping his zits on YouTube, and Eansay has begun calling Indycay by her real name instead of 'Spawn of the Devil'. I feel pretty good about that.
(With my apologies to all the REAL counselors out there. Ummm, and Indycay and Eansay)
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Fame and Misfortune
Well, you'll soon be seeing my picture on the news, and it's not for the reason you think. (What do you think?) I'm guessing I'll soon be famous for setting a record for most library books checked out at once. I just checked my account online, and right now I have 47 books checked out. I'm pretty much the most devoted library patron ever. On the downside, that's 47 chances that I'm going to lose a library book, which is not totally unheard of at my house.
We lost a library book last year that we never found. It was one of those Easy Readers for kids who are just learning to sound out words. I can't remember what it was called, but it was something like Run Bun Sun, I'm sure. Or Scat Rat Cat, or Bug Jug Hug, you get the idea. Anyway, the thing was about 6 pages long and as thin as a sheet of construction paper. Now, really! Should libraries even be allowed to lend out books as small as that? That little micro-book was just begging to be lost!
Sure enough, that's exactly what we did. My late fees starting piling up to the ceiling, and I was looking everywhere for it. Do you know how many places a book the width of a CD could be hiding? With the CDs, for one. Behind the toilet, under the living room rug, in the flour barrel (yes, I have a flour barrel). It could be wedged in a recipe book. Good heavens, I would never find it there! I make all my dishes from memory. Spaghetti, tacos, pancakes. That's it. Just those three. I rotate them, though, so it's not like we're eating the same thing every night.
Eventually I went to the library to confess that I could not find the book. Before I went, I practiced getting tears to well up in my eyes while declaring that the $37.90 I now owed in late fees was more than my meager budget could handle. I wore my most bedraggled outfit (coincidentally, the same one I wear each time I blog and/or make spaghetti) and blacked out a tooth with a Sharpie. I approached the librarian with a look of abject humility and surrender, and told her I had lost a book and couldn't find it and would have to either pay for it, or legally change my name and take out a new library card with no late fees on it.
She looked at me somewhat askance, as all librarians look at people who are book-losers, and told me that the cost to replace the book was $1.97. The sun broke out of the clouds as I turned my face toward heaven. Hurray for skinny books! She even told me that if I would pay to replace the book she would waive my late fees. Obviously not a financial wizard, but I didn't argue with her. I'll let the library's board of directors handle that one.
So, now my card is free of late fees and my conscience is free of Run Sun Bun, or whatever it was. However, if you are ever at my house and you see one of 47 other books lying around, let me know.
We lost a library book last year that we never found. It was one of those Easy Readers for kids who are just learning to sound out words. I can't remember what it was called, but it was something like Run Bun Sun, I'm sure. Or Scat Rat Cat, or Bug Jug Hug, you get the idea. Anyway, the thing was about 6 pages long and as thin as a sheet of construction paper. Now, really! Should libraries even be allowed to lend out books as small as that? That little micro-book was just begging to be lost!
Sure enough, that's exactly what we did. My late fees starting piling up to the ceiling, and I was looking everywhere for it. Do you know how many places a book the width of a CD could be hiding? With the CDs, for one. Behind the toilet, under the living room rug, in the flour barrel (yes, I have a flour barrel). It could be wedged in a recipe book. Good heavens, I would never find it there! I make all my dishes from memory. Spaghetti, tacos, pancakes. That's it. Just those three. I rotate them, though, so it's not like we're eating the same thing every night.
Eventually I went to the library to confess that I could not find the book. Before I went, I practiced getting tears to well up in my eyes while declaring that the $37.90 I now owed in late fees was more than my meager budget could handle. I wore my most bedraggled outfit (coincidentally, the same one I wear each time I blog and/or make spaghetti) and blacked out a tooth with a Sharpie. I approached the librarian with a look of abject humility and surrender, and told her I had lost a book and couldn't find it and would have to either pay for it, or legally change my name and take out a new library card with no late fees on it.
She looked at me somewhat askance, as all librarians look at people who are book-losers, and told me that the cost to replace the book was $1.97. The sun broke out of the clouds as I turned my face toward heaven. Hurray for skinny books! She even told me that if I would pay to replace the book she would waive my late fees. Obviously not a financial wizard, but I didn't argue with her. I'll let the library's board of directors handle that one.
So, now my card is free of late fees and my conscience is free of Run Sun Bun, or whatever it was. However, if you are ever at my house and you see one of 47 other books lying around, let me know.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Caryn
Caryn sat in Biology and wondered why she was so unlucky. Today was the day Mr. Thomas was pairing his students up as lab partners for their dissection project, and Caryn had been planning for it all week. In addition to crossing her fingers that she'd be paired with Wyatt, she'd also planned her outfit and shaved her legs, just in case Wyatt happened to brush up against her, in a scientific manner, of course.
He was just so hot! And she would know. She spent an hour everyday sitting behind him in Biology with nothing better to do than study the way his neck and shoulder muscles shifted and curved when he bent over his notebook or leaned back in his chair to stretch. She found herself constantly fighting the temptation to lean forward and run her fingernails across his broad back.
She'd planned to wear green. With her strawberry blonde hair being more strawberry than blonde, she was one of the few girls in school who could really pull off green. Not being a natural knock-out, Caryn had learned to work with what she had. And great hair was one thing she had.
So, she'd come to school in a jewel green top and her skinny black pants, hair straightened, then curled at the ends only, then glossed, and finally, sprayed. Possibly she'd also sprayed the rest of herself with Tickle, The New Body Fragrance for Women, in the girls' bathroom earlier. She was hoping the exotic notes of jasmine and sandalwood mentioned on the label would prove to be irresistible. All in preparation for dissecting a frog. With Wyatt, of course.
But wouldn't you know it, Wyatt had walked in late today, after the pairings had already been made, and Mr. Thomas had shooed him over to the team closest to his desk, which was now a threesome - Jacie, Meghan, and now Wyatt. That was a sight that made Caryn's stomach churn. The star running back flanked by two adoring female cheerleaders. Caryn glowered at the back of Jacie's head as she laid a hand on Wyatt's forearm, her little silvery laugh carrying to the back of the room, where Caryn was stuck working with Ian and wondering why she was so unlucky.
She tore her gaze away from Jacie and Wyatt long enough to glance briefly at Ian, then immediately regretted the action when she saw him vigorously scratching the inside of his ear with his pinkie.
"Gross!" she muttered under her breath, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms in front of her. Ian reminded her of Shaggy in the Scooby-Doo cartoon. A little too tall, a little too skinny, and a lot too immature. As if to prove her point, Ian looked over just then and saw that she'd caught him overhauling his ear, but just grinned like he could care less. "Want some?" he asked, waving the pinkie in her direction and actually brushing the sleeve of her shirt with it in the process.
"Gross! Get away from me, you heinous pig!" Caryn screamed, jumping out of her chair and toppling over the tray with the dead frog in it at the same time. The whole class burst out laughing, and Ian laughed along as he picked their frog up off the floor and made a big show out of dusting it off and making sure it wasn't hurt. Caryn, in the meantime, stalked over to Mr. Thomas, demanding an immediate partner change. The last thing she needed was an earwax stain on her jewel green top, for the love of Pete.
Too busy, or too weary, to care, Mr. Thomas quickly gave in. "Fine," he said, barely looking up from the stack of papers he was grading.
"Wyatt's group has three people," Caryn added helpfully.
Mr. Thomas glanced over at them. "Great," he said, more loudly this time. "Jacie, you're with Caryn now. Ian, join Wyatt's group over here."
Caryn mentally groaned as Jacie sent her a look that would chill a Flamin' Hot Cheeto. This day was not looking so good, and it was only 2nd hour.
He was just so hot! And she would know. She spent an hour everyday sitting behind him in Biology with nothing better to do than study the way his neck and shoulder muscles shifted and curved when he bent over his notebook or leaned back in his chair to stretch. She found herself constantly fighting the temptation to lean forward and run her fingernails across his broad back.
She'd planned to wear green. With her strawberry blonde hair being more strawberry than blonde, she was one of the few girls in school who could really pull off green. Not being a natural knock-out, Caryn had learned to work with what she had. And great hair was one thing she had.
So, she'd come to school in a jewel green top and her skinny black pants, hair straightened, then curled at the ends only, then glossed, and finally, sprayed. Possibly she'd also sprayed the rest of herself with Tickle, The New Body Fragrance for Women, in the girls' bathroom earlier. She was hoping the exotic notes of jasmine and sandalwood mentioned on the label would prove to be irresistible. All in preparation for dissecting a frog. With Wyatt, of course.
But wouldn't you know it, Wyatt had walked in late today, after the pairings had already been made, and Mr. Thomas had shooed him over to the team closest to his desk, which was now a threesome - Jacie, Meghan, and now Wyatt. That was a sight that made Caryn's stomach churn. The star running back flanked by two adoring female cheerleaders. Caryn glowered at the back of Jacie's head as she laid a hand on Wyatt's forearm, her little silvery laugh carrying to the back of the room, where Caryn was stuck working with Ian and wondering why she was so unlucky.
She tore her gaze away from Jacie and Wyatt long enough to glance briefly at Ian, then immediately regretted the action when she saw him vigorously scratching the inside of his ear with his pinkie.
"Gross!" she muttered under her breath, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms in front of her. Ian reminded her of Shaggy in the Scooby-Doo cartoon. A little too tall, a little too skinny, and a lot too immature. As if to prove her point, Ian looked over just then and saw that she'd caught him overhauling his ear, but just grinned like he could care less. "Want some?" he asked, waving the pinkie in her direction and actually brushing the sleeve of her shirt with it in the process.
"Gross! Get away from me, you heinous pig!" Caryn screamed, jumping out of her chair and toppling over the tray with the dead frog in it at the same time. The whole class burst out laughing, and Ian laughed along as he picked their frog up off the floor and made a big show out of dusting it off and making sure it wasn't hurt. Caryn, in the meantime, stalked over to Mr. Thomas, demanding an immediate partner change. The last thing she needed was an earwax stain on her jewel green top, for the love of Pete.
Too busy, or too weary, to care, Mr. Thomas quickly gave in. "Fine," he said, barely looking up from the stack of papers he was grading.
"Wyatt's group has three people," Caryn added helpfully.
Mr. Thomas glanced over at them. "Great," he said, more loudly this time. "Jacie, you're with Caryn now. Ian, join Wyatt's group over here."
Caryn mentally groaned as Jacie sent her a look that would chill a Flamin' Hot Cheeto. This day was not looking so good, and it was only 2nd hour.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
