Wait, I forgot to put this in my last post.
Ok, you know how people (men) commonly use slang terms for women's anatomy? Like "rack" and "ti*ties" and what have you?
I must know: What are "gams"? And while we're on the subject, what are "cans"? I feel like they mean boobs and legs, but I'm not sure which one means what. And if "cans" means "boobs", who the hell came up with that? Are boobs supposed to be shaped like an MGD can? If so, then I am soooooo not porno material.
I should move to a country where men worship fat women with boobs that look like an orange in a tube sock.
But it would have to be a cool country, not some place in Africa or whatever. It's too hot there, and it's really hard to find orange-in-a-tube-sock-style bikini tops. (Believe me, I've tried.)
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Redundancy
Still neglecting my fans. Work is too crazy. Can't give details. Also can't compose full sentences. Too busy.
I just wanted to put this out there: my busy crazy work life is becoming redundant.
Last night I had two beers and a bowl of old ice cream for dinner. Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss and Edy's Peanut Butter something-or-other.
It's one step up from the two-beer-supper of last week. (That was Summit EPA, I believe.)
Like I've said before: I'm a class act.
Back to work now... Looking forward to Honey Weiss and maybe a stale pita when I get home tonight.
I just wanted to put this out there: my busy crazy work life is becoming redundant.
Last night I had two beers and a bowl of old ice cream for dinner. Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss and Edy's Peanut Butter something-or-other.
It's one step up from the two-beer-supper of last week. (That was Summit EPA, I believe.)
Like I've said before: I'm a class act.
Back to work now... Looking forward to Honey Weiss and maybe a stale pita when I get home tonight.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
One of Those Weeks
Oh, Lordy. It's been one of those weeks. I am super busy at work, so I don't have time to write a real blog entry. Here is a nice, succinct, bullet-pointed list of crap that's been going on the last several days:
- I ran over an "Off" Citronella candle with my car while backing out of the driveway yesterday. I dragged the stupid thing for over two blocks, all the while thinking "What is that sound?"
- My sister-in-law has a staph infection. She came over to hang out for a bit this weekend. What did I do? I touched her wound. You know, the one infested with staph infection. Then I touched my eyes and licked my finger. (I'm kidding, people. But I did touch her owie. And then licked my finger.)
- I didn't feel like making anything for supper the other night, so you know what I served my husband? Beer. We literally had two beers each for supper. Ain't I a class act?
- I found more boxelder bugs in my house. Not many - like 5 or so. But it bothers me! I think they're in my walls! It's making me feel a bit panicked - I have an urge to go rip off a chunk of siding to see if they're in there! Yuck.
- Safety people drive me nuts. I know they are doing their job, and I know that their jobs are important. However, I don't think I need to do a "dry run" of the "evacuation process in case of a tornado" 15 times. In one day. Because the leader of the safety committee thought that we should be able to do it faster. Allllrighty. So we, the women of the office, spent a cumulative hour or so in the nasty women's locker room on the first floor. And now the safety lady is on a rampage throughout the office, looking for "fire hazards" (i.e. family pictures on your desk). Good Lord.
- I've emailed my husband like 5 times in the last two days to ask him nicely not to murder me. I've heard a lot of stories lately about these husbands that just snap and start killing folks. Just this week there was one in Florida, one in Georgia, and one in Illinois, I think. Yuck. It's almost becoming common for the husband to off his wife and kids. WTF? So I keep reminding my husband not to kill me. Because I would be super pissed off.
- And finally, I think I like the show Dexter, but sometimes it annoys me. Interesting, huh?
Well, that's the best I can do for you today. Sorry. I know it's lame. After this horrible week is over, maybe I'll have something worthwhile to blog about. Unless I die from exhaustion and stress-related psychosis. I'd sure have something interesting to blog about then, but I'd be dead, and I don't know if they have blogspot.com in heaven.
(Yeah, haha to all the upcoming jokes about me going to heaven.)
- I ran over an "Off" Citronella candle with my car while backing out of the driveway yesterday. I dragged the stupid thing for over two blocks, all the while thinking "What is that sound?"
- My sister-in-law has a staph infection. She came over to hang out for a bit this weekend. What did I do? I touched her wound. You know, the one infested with staph infection. Then I touched my eyes and licked my finger. (I'm kidding, people. But I did touch her owie. And then licked my finger.)
- I didn't feel like making anything for supper the other night, so you know what I served my husband? Beer. We literally had two beers each for supper. Ain't I a class act?
- I found more boxelder bugs in my house. Not many - like 5 or so. But it bothers me! I think they're in my walls! It's making me feel a bit panicked - I have an urge to go rip off a chunk of siding to see if they're in there! Yuck.
- Safety people drive me nuts. I know they are doing their job, and I know that their jobs are important. However, I don't think I need to do a "dry run" of the "evacuation process in case of a tornado" 15 times. In one day. Because the leader of the safety committee thought that we should be able to do it faster. Allllrighty. So we, the women of the office, spent a cumulative hour or so in the nasty women's locker room on the first floor. And now the safety lady is on a rampage throughout the office, looking for "fire hazards" (i.e. family pictures on your desk). Good Lord.
- I've emailed my husband like 5 times in the last two days to ask him nicely not to murder me. I've heard a lot of stories lately about these husbands that just snap and start killing folks. Just this week there was one in Florida, one in Georgia, and one in Illinois, I think. Yuck. It's almost becoming common for the husband to off his wife and kids. WTF? So I keep reminding my husband not to kill me. Because I would be super pissed off.
- And finally, I think I like the show Dexter, but sometimes it annoys me. Interesting, huh?
Well, that's the best I can do for you today. Sorry. I know it's lame. After this horrible week is over, maybe I'll have something worthwhile to blog about. Unless I die from exhaustion and stress-related psychosis. I'd sure have something interesting to blog about then, but I'd be dead, and I don't know if they have blogspot.com in heaven.
(Yeah, haha to all the upcoming jokes about me going to heaven.)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
That Jacket is Sharp
Oh, how I've neglected my readers. I apologize. Things and stuffs have kept me from being able to blog lately. I suffered a mini nervous breakdown last weekend, work has been crazy, and only now is my soft fruit peeler injury starting to heal. So now I can type the following letters without wincing: t,r,f,c,v,g and sometimes h.
So, I had one of my weird recurring dreams again last night. I figured I'd share it with the masses. Perhaps you could tell me what it means. I tried to figure it out on dream interpretation websites, but strangely nothing pops up when you type in "Don Johnson, giraffe, sharp-looking blazer, and sticky floors." Weird, right? You'd think TONS of people have dreams like that.
Ahhh, but you are intrigued now, aren't you?
So in the dream, I am at a house I used to live in, located in the beautiful (slightly crime-ridden) city of South Minneapolis. It was one of those old houses, probably built around the turn of the century (as in the 1900's. Not the 2000's. We ain't made of money, y'all.) You know, where everything is made for people that were apparently much shorter and slimmer than we are nowadays. The doorways are short, the hallways are narrow, the staircases are an accident waiting to happen. Each step is like 14 inches tall, so it's like doing lunges or something. Which my fat ass is clearly not built for. And the steps are only 3 inches deep, so you can't really fit your huge 21st century foot on it. Very trecherous. And the bedrooms in this house are a spacious 6'x7'. So you can fit, you know, nothing in these rooms. Anyhoo, I'm back in this house. I'm in the living room and I keep hearing this weird sound coming from the attic, right above my head. So I open the attic door and start walking up the stairs. (Please note: this would never happen in real life. If I heard some shit going on in my attic and I didn't know what it was, my ass would be up and outta there, like yesterday.) Anyway, when I get to the top I see that there is a giraffe standing over in the corner. And he kind of telepathically tells me that he needs to get out of there and go home, but he can't figure out how. So I try to help him, but you know, he's just a stupid giraffe, so he isn't really good at taking direction from me. Plus, I notice that the floor is super sticky. So sticky that I lose both of my shoes. So I run downstairs and call the ASPCA. Immediately a car pulls up in front of the house, and the ASPCA dude comes to the door. And it's none other than the highly esteemed actor/singer Don Johnson. Think: Miami Vice. Dude's got the Farrah Faucett-esque mullet going on, the teal colored t-shirt with the linen jacket over it (sleeves rolled up, of course), a sensible pair of tapered black jeans. Oh, and a huge rocket-launcher size tranquilizer gun. I tell him about the giraffe, so he heads up there and shoots the hell out of it. Then he ties a rope around his neck and drags the thing down the stairs and out the front door. I ask him if he is hurting the giraffe by dragging it that way, and Don looks at me and says, "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey."
Then I wake up.
Now, the line that Don Johnson flawlessly delivers at the end of this dream can vary. Sometimes he says, "Keep your chin up, darlin'." Sometimes it's something about Coke. But usually, it's "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey." This is funny for a few different reasons.
A) It makes no sense. The whole friggin dream in completely nonsensical and bizarre. And therefore funny.
B) The chipmunk line, for those of you in the know, is the very first line I had in a play when I was in elementary school. I was an elephant. I don't remember my name, but it will come to me. (Lily?) Anyway, in the first scene of the play, I'm in my gray elephant costume, kind of curled up on the ground, and one of the other castmembers (I believe she was a pelican) comes to "sit" on me - she thinks I'm a rock. I start to move and Pelican-Girl says "Oh, that's not a rock! What is it?" And I say "Well, I ain't no chipmunk, honey!" And then hilarity ensues. (My sister-in-law loves that story. Mostly because one time me, my dad, and my sister in law were sitting in a booth at a Burger King having lunch or elevensies or something, and my dad told the story of me dressed up like an elephant. He apparently thought it was SOOOOOO funny that he started to laugh. And then it escalated to snorting. And then chest-clutching, knee-slapping, red-faced womanly shrieks of laughter. And everyone at the BK was looking at us. And I wanted to crawl under the table and die, because, like, my dad was soooo lame, man. So I don't know if it's the story itself that my SIL likes, or just the over-the-top reaction my dad when relating the story to us.)
But, I digress. Back to my dream. Hopefully you all can interpret this for me. If you do a good job, perhaps I'll share some of my other recurring dreams. (Teaser: robots and cantaloupe. Now you want to know, don't you? DON'T YOU?!?!)
So, I had one of my weird recurring dreams again last night. I figured I'd share it with the masses. Perhaps you could tell me what it means. I tried to figure it out on dream interpretation websites, but strangely nothing pops up when you type in "Don Johnson, giraffe, sharp-looking blazer, and sticky floors." Weird, right? You'd think TONS of people have dreams like that.
Ahhh, but you are intrigued now, aren't you?
So in the dream, I am at a house I used to live in, located in the beautiful (slightly crime-ridden) city of South Minneapolis. It was one of those old houses, probably built around the turn of the century (as in the 1900's. Not the 2000's. We ain't made of money, y'all.) You know, where everything is made for people that were apparently much shorter and slimmer than we are nowadays. The doorways are short, the hallways are narrow, the staircases are an accident waiting to happen. Each step is like 14 inches tall, so it's like doing lunges or something. Which my fat ass is clearly not built for. And the steps are only 3 inches deep, so you can't really fit your huge 21st century foot on it. Very trecherous. And the bedrooms in this house are a spacious 6'x7'. So you can fit, you know, nothing in these rooms. Anyhoo, I'm back in this house. I'm in the living room and I keep hearing this weird sound coming from the attic, right above my head. So I open the attic door and start walking up the stairs. (Please note: this would never happen in real life. If I heard some shit going on in my attic and I didn't know what it was, my ass would be up and outta there, like yesterday.) Anyway, when I get to the top I see that there is a giraffe standing over in the corner. And he kind of telepathically tells me that he needs to get out of there and go home, but he can't figure out how. So I try to help him, but you know, he's just a stupid giraffe, so he isn't really good at taking direction from me. Plus, I notice that the floor is super sticky. So sticky that I lose both of my shoes. So I run downstairs and call the ASPCA. Immediately a car pulls up in front of the house, and the ASPCA dude comes to the door. And it's none other than the highly esteemed actor/singer Don Johnson. Think: Miami Vice. Dude's got the Farrah Faucett-esque mullet going on, the teal colored t-shirt with the linen jacket over it (sleeves rolled up, of course), a sensible pair of tapered black jeans. Oh, and a huge rocket-launcher size tranquilizer gun. I tell him about the giraffe, so he heads up there and shoots the hell out of it. Then he ties a rope around his neck and drags the thing down the stairs and out the front door. I ask him if he is hurting the giraffe by dragging it that way, and Don looks at me and says, "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey."
Then I wake up.
Now, the line that Don Johnson flawlessly delivers at the end of this dream can vary. Sometimes he says, "Keep your chin up, darlin'." Sometimes it's something about Coke. But usually, it's "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey." This is funny for a few different reasons.
A) It makes no sense. The whole friggin dream in completely nonsensical and bizarre. And therefore funny.
B) The chipmunk line, for those of you in the know, is the very first line I had in a play when I was in elementary school. I was an elephant. I don't remember my name, but it will come to me. (Lily?) Anyway, in the first scene of the play, I'm in my gray elephant costume, kind of curled up on the ground, and one of the other castmembers (I believe she was a pelican) comes to "sit" on me - she thinks I'm a rock. I start to move and Pelican-Girl says "Oh, that's not a rock! What is it?" And I say "Well, I ain't no chipmunk, honey!" And then hilarity ensues. (My sister-in-law loves that story. Mostly because one time me, my dad, and my sister in law were sitting in a booth at a Burger King having lunch or elevensies or something, and my dad told the story of me dressed up like an elephant. He apparently thought it was SOOOOOO funny that he started to laugh. And then it escalated to snorting. And then chest-clutching, knee-slapping, red-faced womanly shrieks of laughter. And everyone at the BK was looking at us. And I wanted to crawl under the table and die, because, like, my dad was soooo lame, man. So I don't know if it's the story itself that my SIL likes, or just the over-the-top reaction my dad when relating the story to us.)
But, I digress. Back to my dream. Hopefully you all can interpret this for me. If you do a good job, perhaps I'll share some of my other recurring dreams. (Teaser: robots and cantaloupe. Now you want to know, don't you? DON'T YOU?!?!)
Friday, September 11, 2009
Credit Card Stupidity Part 2
OMG, people. I posted my last rant just a few minutes ago, and I shit you not, I just got another phone call from Capital One. Amazingly, my zip code (or area code, if you're Ray) matches now. But I had to interrupt Kelly's little sales pitch to tell her that I have been added to their Do Not Call List. That shut her up quick.
And there was no need for what-for.
And there was no need for what-for.
Credit Card Stupidity
Here are some excerpts from phone conversations I have had with a certain credit card company over the past two days. Names and numbers have been changed to protect the innocent. Except the credit card company. We'll just call them....oh, I don't know....Capital One.
Background info: I had been getting calls on my cell from some weird 800 number that never left messages. After getting 3 calls in one day, I called the number back, just to see who it was. It was "Capital One" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
"Customer Service" Rep: Thank you for calling Capital One, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been getting tons of calls from you guys for the last two days, and I just wanted to call and make sure there was nothing weird going on with my account.
Rep: Oh, I would be happy to help you with this, Ms Harris. We are so pleased that you have taken the time to contact us with your concerns. Please allow me a moment to access your account.
Me: Ok. Sure.
Rep: Hmmm. Well, I don't see anything strange going on with your account. It is in good standing.
Me: Ok, well why are they calling me?
Rep: Well, perhaps they are trying to offer you a service of some kind. Or maybe not.
Me: Ok, what?
Rep: They may be trying to contact you to offer you a service. But they might not be.
Me: Shouldn't you know why they are calling me 3 times a day?
Rep: I don't see that anyone has left you a voicemail.
Me: I know - that's my point. I don't understand what they want.
Rep: Yes, ma'am.
Me: Yes, what? I don't understand what you're saying to me.
Rep: Thank you for taking the time to contact us with your concerns. You are a valued customer. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Harris?
Me: Apparently not. (Click.)
Ok, then yesterday on the way home, the same number called me for the fourth time that day. I was pissed off, so I just answered the stupid call.
Me: Hello? Hello?
Telemarketer: (Click, long pause) Hello, may I please speak with Henrietta Harris?
Me: This is she. Is this Capital One?
T: Yes, this is Ray with Capital One. Can you please verify your zip code?
Me: Sure. 90210.
T: Hmmm. That's not correct.
Me: Well, yes it is. I'm pretty sure I know my zip code.
T: Is 90210 your area code? I need your zip code, ma'am.
Me: Well, since area codes are 3 digits, and zip codes are 5 digits, I'm pretty sure 90210 is my zip code.
T: Hmmm. How about your mother's maiden name?
Me: Taylor.
T: Taylor - is that T-A-I-L-E-R?
Me: No. So close. T-A-Y-L-O-R.
T: Hmmm. That's not coming up either. Can I have your social security number?
Me: Ummm, no. You can't. Because all of the info I have given you is correct, and I don't understand why nothing is "coming up" for you.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Listen, if you're trying to sell me some kind of service, I don't want it.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Well, I can't continue this call, because I don't know if you are from Capital One, or just some random rude guy that called to steal my identity.
T: Excuse me, ma'am? Did you just call me rude? I told you at the beginning of the call that I was from Capital One. You have been unable to answer my questions.
Me: OK, first of all you called me. I don't need to answer any of your questions. Secondly, I don't believe you're from Capital One, because you should have all of this information on file. I've had an account with you for 6 years and I'm fairly certain my mother's maiden name hasn't changed since then. How is this info just "magically" not matching up?
T: I'm not sure why it's "magically" not matching up. But this really isn't my problem, is it?
Me: Excuse me?!?
T: Click.
OMG, the a-hole hung up on me. Hell to the no. So I was all ready to call back and get someone fired, when my stupid cell phone died. So I had to wait until I got home and juiced up my phone before I could call to scream at someone. The final conversation wasn't nearly as climactic as I thought it would be, so I'm not going to transcribe it. Basically, I changed my address online (where I do all my bill paying/banking/etc) when I bought my house a year ago. But it was somehow saved as a "secondary address" because you have to call in to change the address officially. It would be nice to know that. Maybe you could post something somewhere, oh, I don't know - ONLINE. Also, they apparently didn't even have my mother's maiden name on file, so that's why it didn't "match." But then why was he even asking for my mother's maiden name, if he could see that field was blank? Whatever.
Anyway, I told them to take me off their calling list. Hopefully Ray doesn't call me back. Cuz I'd give him the what-for. That's right: the what-for. And nobody likes getting the what-for.
Background info: I had been getting calls on my cell from some weird 800 number that never left messages. After getting 3 calls in one day, I called the number back, just to see who it was. It was "Capital One" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
"Customer Service" Rep: Thank you for calling Capital One, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been getting tons of calls from you guys for the last two days, and I just wanted to call and make sure there was nothing weird going on with my account.
Rep: Oh, I would be happy to help you with this, Ms Harris. We are so pleased that you have taken the time to contact us with your concerns. Please allow me a moment to access your account.
Me: Ok. Sure.
Rep: Hmmm. Well, I don't see anything strange going on with your account. It is in good standing.
Me: Ok, well why are they calling me?
Rep: Well, perhaps they are trying to offer you a service of some kind. Or maybe not.
Me: Ok, what?
Rep: They may be trying to contact you to offer you a service. But they might not be.
Me: Shouldn't you know why they are calling me 3 times a day?
Rep: I don't see that anyone has left you a voicemail.
Me: I know - that's my point. I don't understand what they want.
Rep: Yes, ma'am.
Me: Yes, what? I don't understand what you're saying to me.
Rep: Thank you for taking the time to contact us with your concerns. You are a valued customer. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Harris?
Me: Apparently not. (Click.)
Ok, then yesterday on the way home, the same number called me for the fourth time that day. I was pissed off, so I just answered the stupid call.
Me: Hello? Hello?
Telemarketer: (Click, long pause) Hello, may I please speak with Henrietta Harris?
Me: This is she. Is this Capital One?
T: Yes, this is Ray with Capital One. Can you please verify your zip code?
Me: Sure. 90210.
T: Hmmm. That's not correct.
Me: Well, yes it is. I'm pretty sure I know my zip code.
T: Is 90210 your area code? I need your zip code, ma'am.
Me: Well, since area codes are 3 digits, and zip codes are 5 digits, I'm pretty sure 90210 is my zip code.
T: Hmmm. How about your mother's maiden name?
Me: Taylor.
T: Taylor - is that T-A-I-L-E-R?
Me: No. So close. T-A-Y-L-O-R.
T: Hmmm. That's not coming up either. Can I have your social security number?
Me: Ummm, no. You can't. Because all of the info I have given you is correct, and I don't understand why nothing is "coming up" for you.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Listen, if you're trying to sell me some kind of service, I don't want it.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Well, I can't continue this call, because I don't know if you are from Capital One, or just some random rude guy that called to steal my identity.
T: Excuse me, ma'am? Did you just call me rude? I told you at the beginning of the call that I was from Capital One. You have been unable to answer my questions.
Me: OK, first of all you called me. I don't need to answer any of your questions. Secondly, I don't believe you're from Capital One, because you should have all of this information on file. I've had an account with you for 6 years and I'm fairly certain my mother's maiden name hasn't changed since then. How is this info just "magically" not matching up?
T: I'm not sure why it's "magically" not matching up. But this really isn't my problem, is it?
Me: Excuse me?!?
T: Click.
OMG, the a-hole hung up on me. Hell to the no. So I was all ready to call back and get someone fired, when my stupid cell phone died. So I had to wait until I got home and juiced up my phone before I could call to scream at someone. The final conversation wasn't nearly as climactic as I thought it would be, so I'm not going to transcribe it. Basically, I changed my address online (where I do all my bill paying/banking/etc) when I bought my house a year ago. But it was somehow saved as a "secondary address" because you have to call in to change the address officially. It would be nice to know that. Maybe you could post something somewhere, oh, I don't know - ONLINE. Also, they apparently didn't even have my mother's maiden name on file, so that's why it didn't "match." But then why was he even asking for my mother's maiden name, if he could see that field was blank? Whatever.
Anyway, I told them to take me off their calling list. Hopefully Ray doesn't call me back. Cuz I'd give him the what-for. That's right: the what-for. And nobody likes getting the what-for.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Eating Healthy is Dangerous For Your Health
For those of you following at home, most of the boxelder bugs are deceased. I'll admit that I have not shed a single tear over their demise. I'm glad they're dead. I hope it hurt.
Now, on to more pertinent issues.
My husband and I are trying to eat healthier. Yay for us. But last night I learned how eating healthy is dangerous for your health. Very dangerous. So I was packing a lunch for my husband. You know, like a good little wifey. Leftover chicken salad, a pita, some hummus, some almonds, a fiber bar, and a bowl of fruit. Sounds delicious, huh? I had the watermelon, grapes, raspberries and blueberries in the tupperware when I had the great idea to add some kiwi into the mix. So I got out my soft-fruit peeler and started working on the kiwi. Now, for those of you who might not be in the loop, a soft fruit peeler is like a regular peeler, except it has serrated edges - like thousands of tiny, barbed piranha teeth. It really works great - the teeth make it much easier to peel things like kiwi, mangoes, jicama and tomatoes. But it's also evil. Because when you accidentally nick your finger on the downstroke, it's much, much messier. You see, each individual tooth sticks into your fingertip, tilted downward so as to gouge as deeply as possible. Then, with the completion of the downstroke, it rips the gouged skin off and drops it into the sink. At which point you notice the blood. On your kiwi. And running down your hand. Because, like I said - this is not a regular finger wound. This is not simply a scratch, or even a wicked paper cut. This is a mortal flesh wound. I mean, I was faint from loss of blood within a few seconds. I had to lie down. And really, I was out of commission for the rest of the night. I couldn't help with the laundry, I couldn't go get my husband a glass of water. I couldn't even turn my fan on. Too much work. I was seriously injured!
Ok, that was slightly dramatic. But that shit hurt. For real. And I really did see a chunk of my mangled flesh in the sink. That was nasty. And it really did bleed (a lot) for almost 10 minutes. And my darling husband had to run out to the store at 10pm to get me bandaids because we didn't have any in the house. (Thanks, dear.)
Moral of the story - be cautious when using a soft fruit peeler or this could happen to you, too.
(You may be wondering what happened to the bloody kiwi. My husband ate it for lunch today. We just rinsed it off and cut it up. Isn't that nasty? I wouldn't eat it, but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. I'm so grossed out.)
Now, on to more pertinent issues.
My husband and I are trying to eat healthier. Yay for us. But last night I learned how eating healthy is dangerous for your health. Very dangerous. So I was packing a lunch for my husband. You know, like a good little wifey. Leftover chicken salad, a pita, some hummus, some almonds, a fiber bar, and a bowl of fruit. Sounds delicious, huh? I had the watermelon, grapes, raspberries and blueberries in the tupperware when I had the great idea to add some kiwi into the mix. So I got out my soft-fruit peeler and started working on the kiwi. Now, for those of you who might not be in the loop, a soft fruit peeler is like a regular peeler, except it has serrated edges - like thousands of tiny, barbed piranha teeth. It really works great - the teeth make it much easier to peel things like kiwi, mangoes, jicama and tomatoes. But it's also evil. Because when you accidentally nick your finger on the downstroke, it's much, much messier. You see, each individual tooth sticks into your fingertip, tilted downward so as to gouge as deeply as possible. Then, with the completion of the downstroke, it rips the gouged skin off and drops it into the sink. At which point you notice the blood. On your kiwi. And running down your hand. Because, like I said - this is not a regular finger wound. This is not simply a scratch, or even a wicked paper cut. This is a mortal flesh wound. I mean, I was faint from loss of blood within a few seconds. I had to lie down. And really, I was out of commission for the rest of the night. I couldn't help with the laundry, I couldn't go get my husband a glass of water. I couldn't even turn my fan on. Too much work. I was seriously injured!
Ok, that was slightly dramatic. But that shit hurt. For real. And I really did see a chunk of my mangled flesh in the sink. That was nasty. And it really did bleed (a lot) for almost 10 minutes. And my darling husband had to run out to the store at 10pm to get me bandaids because we didn't have any in the house. (Thanks, dear.)
Moral of the story - be cautious when using a soft fruit peeler or this could happen to you, too.
(You may be wondering what happened to the bloody kiwi. My husband ate it for lunch today. We just rinsed it off and cut it up. Isn't that nasty? I wouldn't eat it, but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. I'm so grossed out.)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Murderer!!! Hopefully...
Ok, so last night was fun on a few different levels.
The Business of Being Born was actually a cool movie - I thought it was incredibly thought provoking. I know it's old news, but it really is amazing how much of the world is run by money, profit, etc. Wow. If I ever had a kid, I'd probably go with a midwife.
We also saw a lot of boobs and vaginas. Which would normally thrill my husband to bits, but these were birthing boobs and vaginas. So it was not so much of a turn-on for him. Or maybe it was. But I don't want to know about that particular fetish...
When I got home from work last night with my lovely Byerly's fresh caught Norwegian salmon filets (ha ha), I ran a load of laundry down to the laundry room. As I was walking back up the stairs, I saw a boxelder bug. Now, for most people, this would not be a cause for concern. But for me, it was. I should probably fill you in on the back story here.
Last Saturday, my husband was mowing the lawn. Our windows were open, and I heard him shut off the lawn mower. I got up and looked out the window, and saw him inspecting one of the trees in our backyard. Then he started the lawnmower up again, and finished the yard. I thought nothing of it. When he came in the house, the following conversation took place:
Hubby: Hey - do we have fire ants in Minnesota?
Me: What? Fire ants? I don't think so.
Hubby: Maybe you should google it.
Me: I don't have to google it. There are no fire ants this far north.
Hubby: Well, you have to come see something. Put a bra and some shoes on.
Me: Is this "something" possibly fire ant-related? I don't want to go see "something."
Hubby: And make sure your shoes are close-toed, just in case. No flip-flops.
Ok, so I slap on a bra (I like to let the girls loose on the weekends), and throw on a pair of crappy old tennis shoes. We head out to the backyard and I can see from quite some distance away that my littlest maple tree is bleeding. Huh. Isn't this something you would call the Vatican about? My tree is weeping bloody tears? Anyway, as we get closer, I see that every square inch of the surface of that tree is covered in bugs. Little red bugs. And they are all over the ground. I swear to God, there were thousands of them. I swiftly removed myself from the bug-infested out-of-doors, and went upstairs to google whatever the hell those things were. We quickly ascertained that they were, in fact, baby boxelder bugs. And we needed to murder them. Because if we didn't kill them now, they would get bigger and move into my house for the winter. And even though you might not see the boxelder bugs in your house (or in your attic, or in your siding, etc), you would definitely smell them when they died. Especially if all 15,000 of them moved in. So we decided we'd run sometime in the next day or two and get some bug spray or whatever kills these things.
Fast forward to last night. Boxelder bugs had been forgotten. We bought bug spray at Target a couple of nights ago, but never got around to using it. We got caught up in the rat race of life, man. Anyway, I saw a boxelder bug on the way up the stairs, and then I saw two more in the dining room. Huh. So when my husband got home from work, we decided it was time to kill them. So we read the directions, and hooked the hose up to some kind of nozzle-y thing on the bottle, etc. We walk to the back of the house, and the tree that had previously been covered in bugs was now standing there, bug free. Mocking us. Where the hell did all the bugs go? Then we turned to face the back of our house.
Oh. There they are. Oh, and look - it seems as though they've multiplied! Goody.
We couldn't figure out if the spray was safe to use on siding, but we sprayed the hell out of it anyway. I was expecting to hear hissing sounds coming from each individual bug, as it writhed in pain and agony. But nothing happened. They stopped moving while they were being sprayed, but as soon as the water went away, they carried on as usual. Very anti-climactic.
So tonight when I get home, I'm heading out to the backyard to (hopefully) see the bloody carnage. If not, I've decided it's my husband's problem. I can't possibly be bothered with pest control. Not when I have SO MUCH going on. I mean, this little bug-killing episode last night cut into like half an hour I could have spent doing laundry or cleaning or cooking dinner or whatever it is that good little wives do for their husbands.
Really it just cut into primo wine-drinking time. And damn it, I likes my wine-drinking time!
Anyhoo, after we sprayed our bug farm, I made delicious salmon and salad for dinner and then we watched boobs and vaginas and placentas and amniotic fluid spurts. T'was the perfect end to a perfect evening.
The Business of Being Born was actually a cool movie - I thought it was incredibly thought provoking. I know it's old news, but it really is amazing how much of the world is run by money, profit, etc. Wow. If I ever had a kid, I'd probably go with a midwife.
We also saw a lot of boobs and vaginas. Which would normally thrill my husband to bits, but these were birthing boobs and vaginas. So it was not so much of a turn-on for him. Or maybe it was. But I don't want to know about that particular fetish...
When I got home from work last night with my lovely Byerly's fresh caught Norwegian salmon filets (ha ha), I ran a load of laundry down to the laundry room. As I was walking back up the stairs, I saw a boxelder bug. Now, for most people, this would not be a cause for concern. But for me, it was. I should probably fill you in on the back story here.
Last Saturday, my husband was mowing the lawn. Our windows were open, and I heard him shut off the lawn mower. I got up and looked out the window, and saw him inspecting one of the trees in our backyard. Then he started the lawnmower up again, and finished the yard. I thought nothing of it. When he came in the house, the following conversation took place:
Hubby: Hey - do we have fire ants in Minnesota?
Me: What? Fire ants? I don't think so.
Hubby: Maybe you should google it.
Me: I don't have to google it. There are no fire ants this far north.
Hubby: Well, you have to come see something. Put a bra and some shoes on.
Me: Is this "something" possibly fire ant-related? I don't want to go see "something."
Hubby: And make sure your shoes are close-toed, just in case. No flip-flops.
Ok, so I slap on a bra (I like to let the girls loose on the weekends), and throw on a pair of crappy old tennis shoes. We head out to the backyard and I can see from quite some distance away that my littlest maple tree is bleeding. Huh. Isn't this something you would call the Vatican about? My tree is weeping bloody tears? Anyway, as we get closer, I see that every square inch of the surface of that tree is covered in bugs. Little red bugs. And they are all over the ground. I swear to God, there were thousands of them. I swiftly removed myself from the bug-infested out-of-doors, and went upstairs to google whatever the hell those things were. We quickly ascertained that they were, in fact, baby boxelder bugs. And we needed to murder them. Because if we didn't kill them now, they would get bigger and move into my house for the winter. And even though you might not see the boxelder bugs in your house (or in your attic, or in your siding, etc), you would definitely smell them when they died. Especially if all 15,000 of them moved in. So we decided we'd run sometime in the next day or two and get some bug spray or whatever kills these things.
Fast forward to last night. Boxelder bugs had been forgotten. We bought bug spray at Target a couple of nights ago, but never got around to using it. We got caught up in the rat race of life, man. Anyway, I saw a boxelder bug on the way up the stairs, and then I saw two more in the dining room. Huh. So when my husband got home from work, we decided it was time to kill them. So we read the directions, and hooked the hose up to some kind of nozzle-y thing on the bottle, etc. We walk to the back of the house, and the tree that had previously been covered in bugs was now standing there, bug free. Mocking us. Where the hell did all the bugs go? Then we turned to face the back of our house.
Oh. There they are. Oh, and look - it seems as though they've multiplied! Goody.
We couldn't figure out if the spray was safe to use on siding, but we sprayed the hell out of it anyway. I was expecting to hear hissing sounds coming from each individual bug, as it writhed in pain and agony. But nothing happened. They stopped moving while they were being sprayed, but as soon as the water went away, they carried on as usual. Very anti-climactic.
So tonight when I get home, I'm heading out to the backyard to (hopefully) see the bloody carnage. If not, I've decided it's my husband's problem. I can't possibly be bothered with pest control. Not when I have SO MUCH going on. I mean, this little bug-killing episode last night cut into like half an hour I could have spent doing laundry or cleaning or cooking dinner or whatever it is that good little wives do for their husbands.
Really it just cut into primo wine-drinking time. And damn it, I likes my wine-drinking time!
Anyhoo, after we sprayed our bug farm, I made delicious salmon and salad for dinner and then we watched boobs and vaginas and placentas and amniotic fluid spurts. T'was the perfect end to a perfect evening.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Also...
WTF is wrong with Martha Stewart? These are just way too f-ing weird...
http://www.marthastewart.com/photogallery/baby-costumes?&lpgStart=1¤tslide=1¤tChapter=1#ms-global-breadcrumbs
http://www.marthastewart.com/photogallery/baby-costumes?&lpgStart=1¤tslide=1¤tChapter=1#ms-global-breadcrumbs
Grossing Him Out Is Fun
So my husband and I have Netflix, and I really enjoy torturing him with bad movies. A little background: we are a childless married couple who are in and/or nearing their 30's. We do not have the personality types required to enjoy watching a bunch of craptacular kids movies. We are not the people who go see "Up" as soon as it hits the theaters. We haven't seen any of the new kids movies. No Madagascar, no Cars, no Shrek 8.
So it's HILARIOUS to me when we get our new Netflix films and we cuddle up on the couch and pop it in the DVD player and suddenly you hear the theme song to "My Little Ponies." And I'm talking about the REAL "My Little Ponies", not some lame-ass "updated" version. Please take a moment to educate yourselves on the difference between the two types of children's entertainment. Go ahead - I'll wait.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QP_rIAkb_v8&feature=PlayList&p=8BE808ED30468C3D&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=50
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZpurerF2HM
Ok, do you get it now? See how lame and weiner-y they make the new "updated" kids shows? WTF?
But I digress. Back to me torturing my husband for fun. So tonight's going to be extra special. I rented "The Business of Being Born", the documentary flick starring Ricki Lake and her vagina. I can't wait. I'll fill eveyone in on it tomorrow. It should be pretty damned funny. I'm still trying to decide what to serve for dinner, which we will be enjoying while we watch the movie. Ha. Hahah. Any thoughts?
So it's HILARIOUS to me when we get our new Netflix films and we cuddle up on the couch and pop it in the DVD player and suddenly you hear the theme song to "My Little Ponies." And I'm talking about the REAL "My Little Ponies", not some lame-ass "updated" version. Please take a moment to educate yourselves on the difference between the two types of children's entertainment. Go ahead - I'll wait.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QP_rIAkb_v8&feature=PlayList&p=8BE808ED30468C3D&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=50
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZpurerF2HM
Ok, do you get it now? See how lame and weiner-y they make the new "updated" kids shows? WTF?
But I digress. Back to me torturing my husband for fun. So tonight's going to be extra special. I rented "The Business of Being Born", the documentary flick starring Ricki Lake and her vagina. I can't wait. I'll fill eveyone in on it tomorrow. It should be pretty damned funny. I'm still trying to decide what to serve for dinner, which we will be enjoying while we watch the movie. Ha. Hahah. Any thoughts?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I'm a Helpful Person
I like helping people. So here are a few more public service announcements for the masses.
1) If anyone uses Clear Care contact lens solution, please believe it when the packaging tells you NOT TO GET IT IN YOUR EYES. They aren't kidding. I learned this the hard way yesterday morning. I had put my contacts in, but my right contact was bugging me. It was cloudy and weird, so I took it out to rinse it off. I mistakenly grabbed the Clear Care contact solution instead of my "regular" stuff. I rinsed off the lens, and put it back in my eye.
Oh, the pain.
Here's an excerpt from their website:
"Never rinse lenses with Clear Care prior to inserting lenses into your eyes. Clear Care is a powerful cleaning and disinfecting solution that will burn and sting your eyes unless neutralized properly. If you want to rinse lenses, use a sterile saline solution."
Let me put it this way: has anyone out there ever gotten sulphuric acid in their eyeball? No? Well, why don't you give Clear Care a try - I'm sure it's pretty much the same feeling. Of course, when you have acid eating through your cornea, your automatic reaction is to tightly shut your eye. In fact, your automated response to shut your eye is so strong, you really can't even pry it open with your own two hands, as much as you might want to. I tried for a good 30 seconds to pry my eye open, but it just wasn't working. (This was accompanied by stomping on the bathroom floor, running into the living room, falling on the floor and twitching around dramatically, whooping and hissing like a lunatic, and running back to the bathroom. Oh, and lots of cussing.) I was just about to follow through with my decision to just pluck my eyeball out of my head, when my eye cooperated with me and opened just enough to get the damned contact out. OMG. OMG. OMG it hurt. When the whole episode was over, I had mascara-tears all over my face, my eye was nearly swollen shut, and the white part of my eye was approximately the color of cherry jello.
So that's just a little helpful tip for you all.
2) When you get pulled over for going 72 in a 55, just be honest, and you won't get a ticket.
I got pulled over this morning on the way to work, in a city that is notorious for pulling folks over for the most petty infractions. There's like 1 cop to every 15 people in this city. Which should make you feel safe, but instead it just makes you feel harrassed. Plus, there is like NO crime there, so the cops really don't have much to do. (And yes, perhaps the low crime rate has some connection to the high police coverage, but whatever.) These cops just sit outside the grocery store and wait for someone to drive by with a broken tail light, or a tire that's a little low on air, or any drivers that appear to be under the age of 25. Then they pull you over and wait for "backup." Then two more cop cars show up, and they all converge on the poor sap that got pulled over. They all ask you different questions at the same time, which gets you all flustered, and then they ask why you're so nervous. Then you have to get out of the car while they run your license and stuff, because "you're so nervous you're making us nervous. Do you have something to be nervous about?" Whatever, dude. Just run my stupid frickin' license so I can get to work.
So anyway, I was driving to work today, keeping up with traffic (meaning I was speeding), when I saw a cop parked up the road, tagging people. I slowed down to the speed limit and drove past him. I thought I was in the clear. Nope. The guy swung out, put his lights on, and pulled me over. Me. There were 27 other people driving the same speed, but of course, he chooses me. So he walks up to my car and asks for my license and proof of insurance.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: No.
Cop: Really? I clocked you doing 72 mph.
Me: Huh. I don't doubt that.
Cop: Do you know what the speed limit is on this road?
Me: Yes, it's 55.
Cop: So I pulled you over for speeding.
Me: Yeah, that makes sense.
Then, of course, I couldn't find any current proof of insurance in my wallet. I have proof of insurance dating back to 1998 in my wallet, but nothing current. Of course.
Cop: Did you have your seatbelt on the whole time, or did you just put it on when I pulled you over?
Me: I had it on the whole time.
Cop: You sure?
Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure, since I never leave home without it.
Anyone who knows me knows I'm super weird about seatbelts. I always make people wear their seatbelts in my car. Mostly because if I got in an accident and my passenger went through the windshield, it would be really messy to clean up.
He took my license back to his car and did whatever cops do in their cars. It took like 10 minutes. I think he was taking an extra long time just to annoy me.
He finally came back and said he would let me go with a warning because I was honest. Honest about what, I'm not sure. Must have been the "Yeah, I probably was speeding" comment. Or maybe it was the fact that I complimented his shiny car when he gave me my license back. It was very shiny.
Anyway, there's your public service announcements for the day. Use them wisely.
1) If anyone uses Clear Care contact lens solution, please believe it when the packaging tells you NOT TO GET IT IN YOUR EYES. They aren't kidding. I learned this the hard way yesterday morning. I had put my contacts in, but my right contact was bugging me. It was cloudy and weird, so I took it out to rinse it off. I mistakenly grabbed the Clear Care contact solution instead of my "regular" stuff. I rinsed off the lens, and put it back in my eye.
Oh, the pain.
Here's an excerpt from their website:
"Never rinse lenses with Clear Care prior to inserting lenses into your eyes. Clear Care is a powerful cleaning and disinfecting solution that will burn and sting your eyes unless neutralized properly. If you want to rinse lenses, use a sterile saline solution."
Let me put it this way: has anyone out there ever gotten sulphuric acid in their eyeball? No? Well, why don't you give Clear Care a try - I'm sure it's pretty much the same feeling. Of course, when you have acid eating through your cornea, your automatic reaction is to tightly shut your eye. In fact, your automated response to shut your eye is so strong, you really can't even pry it open with your own two hands, as much as you might want to. I tried for a good 30 seconds to pry my eye open, but it just wasn't working. (This was accompanied by stomping on the bathroom floor, running into the living room, falling on the floor and twitching around dramatically, whooping and hissing like a lunatic, and running back to the bathroom. Oh, and lots of cussing.) I was just about to follow through with my decision to just pluck my eyeball out of my head, when my eye cooperated with me and opened just enough to get the damned contact out. OMG. OMG. OMG it hurt. When the whole episode was over, I had mascara-tears all over my face, my eye was nearly swollen shut, and the white part of my eye was approximately the color of cherry jello.
So that's just a little helpful tip for you all.
2) When you get pulled over for going 72 in a 55, just be honest, and you won't get a ticket.
I got pulled over this morning on the way to work, in a city that is notorious for pulling folks over for the most petty infractions. There's like 1 cop to every 15 people in this city. Which should make you feel safe, but instead it just makes you feel harrassed. Plus, there is like NO crime there, so the cops really don't have much to do. (And yes, perhaps the low crime rate has some connection to the high police coverage, but whatever.) These cops just sit outside the grocery store and wait for someone to drive by with a broken tail light, or a tire that's a little low on air, or any drivers that appear to be under the age of 25. Then they pull you over and wait for "backup." Then two more cop cars show up, and they all converge on the poor sap that got pulled over. They all ask you different questions at the same time, which gets you all flustered, and then they ask why you're so nervous. Then you have to get out of the car while they run your license and stuff, because "you're so nervous you're making us nervous. Do you have something to be nervous about?" Whatever, dude. Just run my stupid frickin' license so I can get to work.
So anyway, I was driving to work today, keeping up with traffic (meaning I was speeding), when I saw a cop parked up the road, tagging people. I slowed down to the speed limit and drove past him. I thought I was in the clear. Nope. The guy swung out, put his lights on, and pulled me over. Me. There were 27 other people driving the same speed, but of course, he chooses me. So he walks up to my car and asks for my license and proof of insurance.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: No.
Cop: Really? I clocked you doing 72 mph.
Me: Huh. I don't doubt that.
Cop: Do you know what the speed limit is on this road?
Me: Yes, it's 55.
Cop: So I pulled you over for speeding.
Me: Yeah, that makes sense.
Then, of course, I couldn't find any current proof of insurance in my wallet. I have proof of insurance dating back to 1998 in my wallet, but nothing current. Of course.
Cop: Did you have your seatbelt on the whole time, or did you just put it on when I pulled you over?
Me: I had it on the whole time.
Cop: You sure?
Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure, since I never leave home without it.
Anyone who knows me knows I'm super weird about seatbelts. I always make people wear their seatbelts in my car. Mostly because if I got in an accident and my passenger went through the windshield, it would be really messy to clean up.
He took my license back to his car and did whatever cops do in their cars. It took like 10 minutes. I think he was taking an extra long time just to annoy me.
He finally came back and said he would let me go with a warning because I was honest. Honest about what, I'm not sure. Must have been the "Yeah, I probably was speeding" comment. Or maybe it was the fact that I complimented his shiny car when he gave me my license back. It was very shiny.
Anyway, there's your public service announcements for the day. Use them wisely.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Interesting Nutrition Fact of the Day
Guess how much fiber an adult is supposed to consume per day?
25 - 30 grams
Guess how much fiber I ate last night for dinner?
55 - 70 grams
Guess what happens when you eat a lot of fiber?
You shit your brains out.
Guess what my day has been like so far?
Just a little public service announcement. You're welcome.
25 - 30 grams
Guess how much fiber I ate last night for dinner?
55 - 70 grams
Guess what happens when you eat a lot of fiber?
You shit your brains out.
Guess what my day has been like so far?
Just a little public service announcement. You're welcome.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Gobblers
Here is some additional content, as requested (ever so politely, might I add) by my sole follower. Nay, FAN. That's right, bitches, I have a fan.
Ok, so I am not a nature enthusiast. At all. It's dirty and germy. Too many bugs. Too much sunshine. Too many hazards. It's just downright dangerous. Therefore, I don't spend a lot of time in the out-of-doors. This, I believe, is the reason that I was unaware of the existence of the wild turkey until recently.
My first encounter with a wild turkey was last fall. I was at work, in a ground-level conference room with several large windows. I was bored out of my skull, so I thought I'd kill some time looking out the window and daydreaming about winning the lottery or some such thing. That's when I saw it: the ugliest bird I had ever seen in my whole life. (Aside from the one-legged female Mallard that lives in our backyard and appears to be the "crazy cat lady" of her species. But that's another story.) Anyhoo, there was a whole gaggle (flock? group? gang?) of these ugly-ass turkeys running around in front of the building. They freaked me out, with all their ugliness. I thought they might be a sign of Armageddon or some sort of demon spawn. I interrupted the meeting to have the following conversation:
Me: OMG, what the hell are those things?!?!
Co-Worker: Those are turkeys.
Me: OMG, did they fall off a truck or something?!?
CW: What?
Me: Did they fall off a truck? Where did they come from?
CW: Probably the woods.
Me: Shut up. Turkeys don't live in woods. They live on farms. Or something.
CW: Are you serious?
Me: Are you?
CW: Dude, those are wild turkeys. They live in the woods.
Me: Can you eat them?
CW: Probably.
Me: What do they eat in the woods?
CW: I don't know - probably berries or something.
Me: They're so ugly. They probably eat their young.
At this point, one of the turkeys began to jump up (very awkwardly) into the lower branches of a tree, in an attempt to grab one of the few remaining leaves.
Me: Yeah, their young, and leaves. I'll bet if they ate cranberries they'd taste better at Thanksgiving.
So this morning, on my drive in, I saw another gaggle of these freakish birds. They looked downright crazed. They were partially blocking the entrance to my parking lot, so I had to wait for the damn things to move. (Even though they are super ugly, I can't just run them down. I'm an animal lover, some might say. Especially when they're on my plate and covered in gravy.) So these crazed (and probably rabid) birds notice that I'm slowly inching my way toward them, trying to entice them to move along. Now, I haven't googled this or anything, so I'm not sure if this is a factual statement about wild turkeys as a whole, or if this just applied to the evil turkeys I met this morning, but: Turkeys will try to kill you if you invade their personal bubble. Literally kill you. These things went mental. The sound of dull pecking thuds on the front quarterpanel of my car. The flapping of hundreds, nay thousands, of ugly turkey wings. The weird squawky-clicky sound the leader of the pack was making, egging on the rest of the gaggle. Like the William Wallace of the Turkey Kingdom. I'll admit that I don't speak ugly turkey gobble, but I'm pretty sure he was saying "Aye, fight and you may die. Run and you'll live -- at least a while. And dying in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!!!" Or something to that effect. I finally edged my way into the parking lot, found a spot, turned off my car, and slowly raised my eyes to my rear-view mirror. Were they standing there, waiting for me to exit my vehicle? Would they peck my eyes out? Would it hurt, or would they make it quick? Damn, why am I wearing heels? I can't run in heels!
Turns out, they couldn't care less about me or my car. They'd moved on. They'd already forgotten about the attack. WTF? Maybe they were all male turkeys. Like the rage-a-holic kind that totally freak out on something and then move on and act like nothing happened. Because if they were chick turkeys, they would have held a grudge, plotted some sort of revenge strategy, and full-on assaulted me when I got out of my car. Not enough to kill me, but just enough to mess me up and make me "think" next time.
Turkeys are scary.
Ok, so I am not a nature enthusiast. At all. It's dirty and germy. Too many bugs. Too much sunshine. Too many hazards. It's just downright dangerous. Therefore, I don't spend a lot of time in the out-of-doors. This, I believe, is the reason that I was unaware of the existence of the wild turkey until recently.
My first encounter with a wild turkey was last fall. I was at work, in a ground-level conference room with several large windows. I was bored out of my skull, so I thought I'd kill some time looking out the window and daydreaming about winning the lottery or some such thing. That's when I saw it: the ugliest bird I had ever seen in my whole life. (Aside from the one-legged female Mallard that lives in our backyard and appears to be the "crazy cat lady" of her species. But that's another story.) Anyhoo, there was a whole gaggle (flock? group? gang?) of these ugly-ass turkeys running around in front of the building. They freaked me out, with all their ugliness. I thought they might be a sign of Armageddon or some sort of demon spawn. I interrupted the meeting to have the following conversation:
Me: OMG, what the hell are those things?!?!
Co-Worker: Those are turkeys.
Me: OMG, did they fall off a truck or something?!?
CW: What?
Me: Did they fall off a truck? Where did they come from?
CW: Probably the woods.
Me: Shut up. Turkeys don't live in woods. They live on farms. Or something.
CW: Are you serious?
Me: Are you?
CW: Dude, those are wild turkeys. They live in the woods.
Me: Can you eat them?
CW: Probably.
Me: What do they eat in the woods?
CW: I don't know - probably berries or something.
Me: They're so ugly. They probably eat their young.
At this point, one of the turkeys began to jump up (very awkwardly) into the lower branches of a tree, in an attempt to grab one of the few remaining leaves.
Me: Yeah, their young, and leaves. I'll bet if they ate cranberries they'd taste better at Thanksgiving.
So this morning, on my drive in, I saw another gaggle of these freakish birds. They looked downright crazed. They were partially blocking the entrance to my parking lot, so I had to wait for the damn things to move. (Even though they are super ugly, I can't just run them down. I'm an animal lover, some might say. Especially when they're on my plate and covered in gravy.) So these crazed (and probably rabid) birds notice that I'm slowly inching my way toward them, trying to entice them to move along. Now, I haven't googled this or anything, so I'm not sure if this is a factual statement about wild turkeys as a whole, or if this just applied to the evil turkeys I met this morning, but: Turkeys will try to kill you if you invade their personal bubble. Literally kill you. These things went mental. The sound of dull pecking thuds on the front quarterpanel of my car. The flapping of hundreds, nay thousands, of ugly turkey wings. The weird squawky-clicky sound the leader of the pack was making, egging on the rest of the gaggle. Like the William Wallace of the Turkey Kingdom. I'll admit that I don't speak ugly turkey gobble, but I'm pretty sure he was saying "Aye, fight and you may die. Run and you'll live -- at least a while. And dying in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!!!" Or something to that effect. I finally edged my way into the parking lot, found a spot, turned off my car, and slowly raised my eyes to my rear-view mirror. Were they standing there, waiting for me to exit my vehicle? Would they peck my eyes out? Would it hurt, or would they make it quick? Damn, why am I wearing heels? I can't run in heels!
Turns out, they couldn't care less about me or my car. They'd moved on. They'd already forgotten about the attack. WTF? Maybe they were all male turkeys. Like the rage-a-holic kind that totally freak out on something and then move on and act like nothing happened. Because if they were chick turkeys, they would have held a grudge, plotted some sort of revenge strategy, and full-on assaulted me when I got out of my car. Not enough to kill me, but just enough to mess me up and make me "think" next time.
Turkeys are scary.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Welcome to my blog...
...The place where I will chronicle all of the mundane, stupid, random things I encounter throughout the day. Yes, I am that self-important. Yes, you DO care that I just had a VegOut sandwich from Einstein Bagels. And that I just got out of a super boring meeting, just like hundreds of thousands of other people around the world. And that I couldn't think of anything clever for my URL address so I just wrote "Frozen Tampon Popsicle" because I like that scene from South Park Bigger, Badder and Uncut.
Oh, you care, people. You care...
Oh, you care, people. You care...
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