That's right. You heard me.
Let me break it down. I sometimes think my body was the experiment. The hot dog body made with body part by products. There is some symmetry; both my head and my feet are far too teeny for my torso and MY GIANT LEGS.
It occurs to me that I'm using the wrong adjective. Giant isn't correct. Long is better. My legs are far too long for my teeny little feet.
Or my non-existent torso.
I'm 5'8". I have a 34 inch inseam. I'm not skinny and I don't think I'm considered "fat". But, you'd never know that by the "size" on my clothes. There was a time when I hovered between 115 and 125lbs. Even then, I'd be struggling to get into a size "9" because of my legs.
And my Mom. Oh, she would always say: "The men, they love long legs like yours." My thoughts were "Why? Because I can't find clothes to wear and I'm nekkid?" or "But...isn't having that much leg just a barrier to that which they are trying to get at?"
I can't tell you how long it took me to realize that I simply can't purchase pants from anywhere but the Gap, Old Navy, Lerner, or Eddie Bauer. And even then, some of these stores sell the long only on line, where they are forever sold out. And even when I find them, the waist on the pants nearly reaches my girls. That's a swell look. But at least "long" is being manufactured now. And the styles don't scream short bus like they used to.
And now, for the worst segue ever - because there isn't one....
Last night in the car, Mr. Zoom and I started a discussion about how/when we can retire.
Probably never, so I started with the crazy talk:
Me: "We can build a time machine, go back in time and tell ourselves to save every single dime we make so that we can retire NOW. "
Mr. Zoom: "Nah, I'd figure out which stocks are going to do really well - and knowing that I'd go back in time and invest or win the lottery or something."
Me: "No, NO! We can't do that! If we cheat and try to get money the easy way, we will end up with only one working eyeball or deformed noses or something. Because, if you don't work hard for the result, something will make you regret doing it the easy way.....I watch t.v. ...... I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
King Cart
The video is darker on the mywink than it is on my computer, and the very last thing I said has been cut out of the mywink version as well. But that's ok. It's the only way I can share with the world the things Mr. Zoom and I do when we are unsupervised. And further proove my point...we don't need children.
This was in an Ikea parking lot at 9pm on a Friday night. What the video on mywink doesn't allow you to hear is my question to Mr. Zoom after - "Are we going to get arrested?"
Cart Fun:
King Of The Cart - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
This was in an Ikea parking lot at 9pm on a Friday night. What the video on mywink doesn't allow you to hear is my question to Mr. Zoom after - "Are we going to get arrested?"
Cart Fun:
King Of The Cart - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Pitching Tents with the Zooms
I've gone missing from checking in on my favorite blogs and playing with my own, lately. There are a few reasons for that.
One of which is that Mr. Zoom upgraded our home computers. Because both of our jobs are in post-holiday crazy mode, there's not a lot of energy for more computer wrangling by the time we get home.
Currently, one of the new ones is set up, and I think it's fully functional. But I'm still sortof afraid of it. It's got one of those new flat panel monitors, and it's HUGE. I glanced at it while it was on the other day, and now working on my teeny little monitor at the office feels like I'm working on my cell phone screen. If I get used to that thing (spoiled by), I'm going to be in a lot of trouble.
The best part about the new machine is the giant dork boner it gives Mr. Zoom. This new machine has a giga trila ziga flibbity flam - and plenty of other interesting features that I understand and can use, but do not know the proper names for. It's "that thingie there, with the flippity door - and the drives cd and dvd - and those other places for those thingies to go into." - with TONS of hand gestures when I'm trying to tell anyone what it is. Then I usually give up and just point to Mr. Zoom's stiffy.
Speaking of dork boners, there's a show on the Discovery channel that we stumbled upon and it captures our attention like no other. It's called "How It's Made" and I'm telling you, if ever there was a sign that Mr. Zoom and I were made for each other, this show is it.
It's a low tech, 30 minute show that actually reminds me quite a bit of those film strips they used to show us in Jr. High and maybe even High School. It's so low tech that when we dvr it - we often fast forward right over a segment because it looks just like the corney beginning of an infomercial.
There's no vapid host trying to be witty. There's no teasing the audience with the contents until you are screaming at the t.v. to give up the goods. They cover 3 items in the half hour, and each segment moves FAST. So far we've seen how the following things are made: Seadoo's, hockey skates (and roller blades), winter jackets, mushrooms, wine (red and white) - and something else I've already forgotten.
When Mr. Zoom and I first found this show, we sat silently on the couch and were absolutely transfixed. I said during a commercial break "I think I just drooled on myself". We both kept mumbling during the segment on jackets with the super cool electric scissors: ".....e....lectric.....scissors......mmmmm".
The even better thing about this show is that it airs the same night as "Lost". We love "Lost", but I'm beginning to feel like a guy with blue balls when I watch it.
"Lost" makes me talk loudly to the t.v. "You suck! You promised me some answers, and now I'm more confused than before! "When did I stop watching this show for fun and start over analyzing every single piece of minutiae AND WHY CAN'T I STOP?"
With "How It's Made", there's nothing but answers. ANSWERS you didn't even know you were looking for! It is the Anti-Lost.
One of which is that Mr. Zoom upgraded our home computers. Because both of our jobs are in post-holiday crazy mode, there's not a lot of energy for more computer wrangling by the time we get home.
Currently, one of the new ones is set up, and I think it's fully functional. But I'm still sortof afraid of it. It's got one of those new flat panel monitors, and it's HUGE. I glanced at it while it was on the other day, and now working on my teeny little monitor at the office feels like I'm working on my cell phone screen. If I get used to that thing (spoiled by), I'm going to be in a lot of trouble.
The best part about the new machine is the giant dork boner it gives Mr. Zoom. This new machine has a giga trila ziga flibbity flam - and plenty of other interesting features that I understand and can use, but do not know the proper names for. It's "that thingie there, with the flippity door - and the drives cd and dvd - and those other places for those thingies to go into." - with TONS of hand gestures when I'm trying to tell anyone what it is. Then I usually give up and just point to Mr. Zoom's stiffy.
Speaking of dork boners, there's a show on the Discovery channel that we stumbled upon and it captures our attention like no other. It's called "How It's Made" and I'm telling you, if ever there was a sign that Mr. Zoom and I were made for each other, this show is it.
It's a low tech, 30 minute show that actually reminds me quite a bit of those film strips they used to show us in Jr. High and maybe even High School. It's so low tech that when we dvr it - we often fast forward right over a segment because it looks just like the corney beginning of an infomercial.
There's no vapid host trying to be witty. There's no teasing the audience with the contents until you are screaming at the t.v. to give up the goods. They cover 3 items in the half hour, and each segment moves FAST. So far we've seen how the following things are made: Seadoo's, hockey skates (and roller blades), winter jackets, mushrooms, wine (red and white) - and something else I've already forgotten.
When Mr. Zoom and I first found this show, we sat silently on the couch and were absolutely transfixed. I said during a commercial break "I think I just drooled on myself". We both kept mumbling during the segment on jackets with the super cool electric scissors: ".....e....lectric.....scissors......mmmmm".
The even better thing about this show is that it airs the same night as "Lost". We love "Lost", but I'm beginning to feel like a guy with blue balls when I watch it.
"Lost" makes me talk loudly to the t.v. "You suck! You promised me some answers, and now I'm more confused than before! "When did I stop watching this show for fun and start over analyzing every single piece of minutiae AND WHY CAN'T I STOP?"
With "How It's Made", there's nothing but answers. ANSWERS you didn't even know you were looking for! It is the Anti-Lost.
Friday, January 20, 2006
UPS v. The Zooms
I'm pretty sure that this here post isn't going to be nearly as funny to anyone out there reading it as it is to a couple of foolios like us Zooms. And you kindof had to be there, I think.
Mr. Zoom had ordered some items for our home that were to be shipped via UPS. That sounds perfectly convenient, doesn't it? It did to me too.
So of course UPS tries to deliver these items during the exact hours that we Zooms are at the office. 3 times. Apparently this activates the UPS delivery quicksand. The harder you try to be in a place that the packages will be sent to, the faster they are sucked into the netherworld of BROWN.
What can Brown do for me? Brown can deliver the fucking boxes TO THE ADDRESS WE PAID TO HAVE THEM SHIPPED TO.
We now had to go to a central delivery area to pick up the packages. And because we both ordered in our own names, we BOTH had to be there with identification or else. There would be no convenience of one person picking up all of the packages.
Fine.
We left our respective offices early. We had to be at the UPS office by 6:00 p.m. when they closed. So we began our journey at 4:30 p.m. We headed out on one of the incredibly expensive toll roads we have out here. It's the only way to get anywhere on a Friday afternoon.
Mr. Zoom exits the toll road after paying $4.25 to the human in the silver box. One.Exit.Too.Late.
Realizing the error, we get back on the toll road going the opposite direction. And guess what? There's no exit for the road we want GOING THAT DIRECTION. So we exit the toll road and this time are faced with the personless station that won't let you go until the proper amount of money has been deposited.
This one was only $1.25, but it might as well have been 1.2 million. These booths DON'T take dollar bills. What they DO have is a change making machine. So one has to submit their paper money to the converter, which then vomits coins back out into this little tray. One must then take the coins and toss them into this HUGE basket and wait 30 seconds for each coin to make its way down into the counter like a bad carnival game. I've tried submitting more than one coin at a time, which leads to 2 quarters being counted as 1. Why they can't have the converter machine be the counting machine and just go from there?
I think it's because BROWN must have sponsored our toll roads.
This particular day, our counter decided it wasn't going to accept any nickles. Wait, it did accept them. About 5 of them, actually. But it didn't CREDIT us for the money so we couldn't drive away. And there was no person to complain to. So I dug in my purse for anything other than nickles and found about 462 pennies, 42 nickles and 2 dimes. THANK GOODNESS FOR THOSE DIMES.
We finally broke free of the money eating toll booth and got BACK on the toll road, vowing to learn from our last two mistakes.
This time, we were forced to exit at the road we had exited the FIRST time ($4.25) because when we got back on the toll road the third time? Yeah. We didn't know it, but we were to far down to catch the toll road exit to the road we needed.
And this booth was not tended by a human, either. When we had first come to this exit, it was from yet another toll road....so that one had people working it. This one was (obviously) a shorter distance, so silver brainless nickel eating box it was. We submitted a $5 bill (that's all the physical money we had left) and tried to feed those coins into the booth. This time, we dropped at least one quarter on the ground and were so SO frustrated that we didn't care. We were literaly throwing money at the machine, just hoping that at some point enough would make it in there to let.us.go.
We still had time. We were all kinds of frustrated...that laughing/crying kind of frustration, but we weren't going to give up. The worst part about the whole thing was that the building was high up on this hill, practically waving to us the entire time. There's nothing like being able to SEE the destination, but not being able to GET TO the thing.
We finally made it to the fortress that proclaimed to be the UPS customer pick up center. We wound the truck through the twisty paths and there it was! The delivery center!
I kept teasing Mr. Zoom, because I was super hungry and slap happy by now. I said "I can't wait to drive up and have the access gate closed on us! I will watch your white hot anger melt the metal!"
As we approached the entrance, I noticed the hours were posted in LARGE block letters: "Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 7:00 P.M.
I couldn't help but laugh and squeal "THEY ARE OPEN UNTIL 7! 7:00! Even on Friday! Look.At.That!"
Mr. Zoom tersley quizzed our counter Brown. He said "Are you REALLY open until 7? Because the internet and every person you call about your order says 6. They say you are closed at 6."
Brown didn't care. It's toll roads were doing great business!
Poor Mr. Zoom. He had worked soo hard to coordinate this whole journey. He even had to put up with me and the morning fight which increases exponentially with the amount of sleep I perceive I am being robbed of. I gave a pay-per-view quality fight this morning. And I'm someone who regularly argues with shoes just because they are in my way.
Mr. Zoom had ordered some items for our home that were to be shipped via UPS. That sounds perfectly convenient, doesn't it? It did to me too.
So of course UPS tries to deliver these items during the exact hours that we Zooms are at the office. 3 times. Apparently this activates the UPS delivery quicksand. The harder you try to be in a place that the packages will be sent to, the faster they are sucked into the netherworld of BROWN.
What can Brown do for me? Brown can deliver the fucking boxes TO THE ADDRESS WE PAID TO HAVE THEM SHIPPED TO.
We now had to go to a central delivery area to pick up the packages. And because we both ordered in our own names, we BOTH had to be there with identification or else. There would be no convenience of one person picking up all of the packages.
Fine.
We left our respective offices early. We had to be at the UPS office by 6:00 p.m. when they closed. So we began our journey at 4:30 p.m. We headed out on one of the incredibly expensive toll roads we have out here. It's the only way to get anywhere on a Friday afternoon.
Mr. Zoom exits the toll road after paying $4.25 to the human in the silver box. One.Exit.Too.Late.
Realizing the error, we get back on the toll road going the opposite direction. And guess what? There's no exit for the road we want GOING THAT DIRECTION. So we exit the toll road and this time are faced with the personless station that won't let you go until the proper amount of money has been deposited.
This one was only $1.25, but it might as well have been 1.2 million. These booths DON'T take dollar bills. What they DO have is a change making machine. So one has to submit their paper money to the converter, which then vomits coins back out into this little tray. One must then take the coins and toss them into this HUGE basket and wait 30 seconds for each coin to make its way down into the counter like a bad carnival game. I've tried submitting more than one coin at a time, which leads to 2 quarters being counted as 1. Why they can't have the converter machine be the counting machine and just go from there?
I think it's because BROWN must have sponsored our toll roads.
This particular day, our counter decided it wasn't going to accept any nickles. Wait, it did accept them. About 5 of them, actually. But it didn't CREDIT us for the money so we couldn't drive away. And there was no person to complain to. So I dug in my purse for anything other than nickles and found about 462 pennies, 42 nickles and 2 dimes. THANK GOODNESS FOR THOSE DIMES.
We finally broke free of the money eating toll booth and got BACK on the toll road, vowing to learn from our last two mistakes.
This time, we were forced to exit at the road we had exited the FIRST time ($4.25) because when we got back on the toll road the third time? Yeah. We didn't know it, but we were to far down to catch the toll road exit to the road we needed.
And this booth was not tended by a human, either. When we had first come to this exit, it was from yet another toll road....so that one had people working it. This one was (obviously) a shorter distance, so silver brainless nickel eating box it was. We submitted a $5 bill (that's all the physical money we had left) and tried to feed those coins into the booth. This time, we dropped at least one quarter on the ground and were so SO frustrated that we didn't care. We were literaly throwing money at the machine, just hoping that at some point enough would make it in there to let.us.go.
We still had time. We were all kinds of frustrated...that laughing/crying kind of frustration, but we weren't going to give up. The worst part about the whole thing was that the building was high up on this hill, practically waving to us the entire time. There's nothing like being able to SEE the destination, but not being able to GET TO the thing.
We finally made it to the fortress that proclaimed to be the UPS customer pick up center. We wound the truck through the twisty paths and there it was! The delivery center!
I kept teasing Mr. Zoom, because I was super hungry and slap happy by now. I said "I can't wait to drive up and have the access gate closed on us! I will watch your white hot anger melt the metal!"
As we approached the entrance, I noticed the hours were posted in LARGE block letters: "Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 7:00 P.M.
I couldn't help but laugh and squeal "THEY ARE OPEN UNTIL 7! 7:00! Even on Friday! Look.At.That!"
Mr. Zoom tersley quizzed our counter Brown. He said "Are you REALLY open until 7? Because the internet and every person you call about your order says 6. They say you are closed at 6."
Brown didn't care. It's toll roads were doing great business!
Poor Mr. Zoom. He had worked soo hard to coordinate this whole journey. He even had to put up with me and the morning fight which increases exponentially with the amount of sleep I perceive I am being robbed of. I gave a pay-per-view quality fight this morning. And I'm someone who regularly argues with shoes just because they are in my way.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
There Goes Another Wife Life
Mr. Zoom doesn't wear his wedding ring on the left hand. He prefers the right. It's just a comfort thing. His mom nearly died when she found out he wasn't going to wear it on the "correct" hand. She expected me to be upset too, but I honestly don't care what hand/finger he wears it on, or if he even wears one at all.
When Mr. Zoom got himself the new job, I told him that I was going to make him wear badges to the new place for about a month. Little helpful signs that said "I'm married, and she will kill you." "My wife is crazy." Things like that. Because, I NOW reasoned, how are people supposed to know he's off the market unless he wears the brand?
And even though I'd never really ask him to do such a thing, I did come up with one particular badgeable phrase for him: "My medication is expired."
And the best part about it - is that it's true! I was going through the medicine cabinet the other day and I found medication that EXPIRED in 1998!!
If I did the math right, I was 29 when that particular container of pills WENT BAD! 29!! I'm currently 36, looking really hard at 37.
"You aren't seriously thinking you can still use this, are you?"
"What? It's still good."
This is exactly the same conversation we have over open beverage containers only it's me being crazy there.
The same force that prevents Mr. Zoom from throwing out expired medication prevents me from drinking out of the same beverage container the next day. If I open a soda (one of those plastic bottles with the cap) or water or something, and don't finish it - Mr. Zoom will put it in the refrigerator.
And then I work around it for as long as it takes for the thing to disappear. Which is garbage night - and it's my job to take out the garbage. Once he brought one of those CONTAMINATORS to me as a beverage to accompany my dinner. I squirmed and deployed the "but it's flaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat" excuse until he finally took it away.
Now when he says "I know, you have an open container issue...", I can say "Yeah, and you have an expired medication issue." And not that it means anything or makes any sense at all, really - but I'll have hopefully distracted him long enough for the t.v. to take over and make him forget I'm being difficult.
When Mr. Zoom got himself the new job, I told him that I was going to make him wear badges to the new place for about a month. Little helpful signs that said "I'm married, and she will kill you." "My wife is crazy." Things like that. Because, I NOW reasoned, how are people supposed to know he's off the market unless he wears the brand?
And even though I'd never really ask him to do such a thing, I did come up with one particular badgeable phrase for him: "My medication is expired."
And the best part about it - is that it's true! I was going through the medicine cabinet the other day and I found medication that EXPIRED in 1998!!
If I did the math right, I was 29 when that particular container of pills WENT BAD! 29!! I'm currently 36, looking really hard at 37.
"You aren't seriously thinking you can still use this, are you?"
"What? It's still good."
This is exactly the same conversation we have over open beverage containers only it's me being crazy there.
The same force that prevents Mr. Zoom from throwing out expired medication prevents me from drinking out of the same beverage container the next day. If I open a soda (one of those plastic bottles with the cap) or water or something, and don't finish it - Mr. Zoom will put it in the refrigerator.
And then I work around it for as long as it takes for the thing to disappear. Which is garbage night - and it's my job to take out the garbage. Once he brought one of those CONTAMINATORS to me as a beverage to accompany my dinner. I squirmed and deployed the "but it's flaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat" excuse until he finally took it away.
Now when he says "I know, you have an open container issue...", I can say "Yeah, and you have an expired medication issue." And not that it means anything or makes any sense at all, really - but I'll have hopefully distracted him long enough for the t.v. to take over and make him forget I'm being difficult.
Monday, January 16, 2006
My Invisible T-Shirt Says Please Talk To Me
Have any of you ever been shopping, or just out in public in general, and started asking complete strangers for advice? And maybe I am what is wrong with society. I am shy.
I can understand the genuine person trying to pick up on anther person - how else do you meet people? I can understand striking up a casual conversation in line at the grocery store or something. But I always seem to draw the totally insane individual directly to my side, whereupon they ask me questions or say things that just feel terribly out of place.
Saturday Mr. Zoom and I went clothing shopping for him. Since he has a new job, he wanted to update his business clothes a bit. We hit many stores, and one of them was having an absolutely insane sale.
I normally HATE sales. I hate people digging through stuff, throwing it around and shoving each other out of the way all in the name of saving 50 - 70%. Because we had just wandered into said sale, I figured I'd poke around and see if there wasn't anything I couldn't live without.
It was a little crazy, but overall people were polite to each other. Clothing was strewn all over the place, but it was still searchable. It wasn't long before I found myself with a complete stranger, who was talking to me as if I was her mentor/sister/mother/best friend.
She started out with: "Oooh, there was this great shirt right here a few minutes ago that I was considering trying on. But...........I can't find it now.................of course........." and she was looking DIRECTLY at me. I smiled a weak smile and shifted over a bit ... away from her. That was a mistake.
She then found a shirt she apparently liked better, and wanted me to tell her whether it would look good on her or not?!! She said "WHAT DO YOU THINK? It's one of those that goes around your neck, and it's sexy. It's velvet. I couldn't wear it to work though. WHAT DO YOU THINK? Do you think it's too chunky? Huh? Huh? Huh?
And there was no mistaking me as an employee of this store. I had waaaaay to frumpy a sweater on and I am not a size 2.
I finally said "uhhhh, I uhhhh, not so good with other peoples' clothing choices" and then I bolted.
Sunday Mr. Zoom and I needed some food and fast. We ended up at McDonalds. It's the most godawful thing we could eat, we know. But damn it tastes good for being so horrible. Anyway, I wasn't feeling that great so I went ahead and went to the McD's in basically my pj bottoms, slippers, a torn up t-shirt and my hair piled up on my head. No makeup, no preparation, just pure, unaltered, post nap nappiness.
I figured "Heck. It's a McD's. Nobody there is going to know who you are or ever see you again." And I was right.
The thing I didn't count on was that a lady would approach me (Mr. Zoom was still wranglling napkins and ketchup when this happened) and say to me "Well, I just don't know where to sit."
Huh?
She was there with her husband. She had a Sunday paper with her. He was ordering food and I guess she was in charge of locating a table.
I'd really like to wash my invisible T-shirt. If I could just see it.
I can understand the genuine person trying to pick up on anther person - how else do you meet people? I can understand striking up a casual conversation in line at the grocery store or something. But I always seem to draw the totally insane individual directly to my side, whereupon they ask me questions or say things that just feel terribly out of place.
Saturday Mr. Zoom and I went clothing shopping for him. Since he has a new job, he wanted to update his business clothes a bit. We hit many stores, and one of them was having an absolutely insane sale.
I normally HATE sales. I hate people digging through stuff, throwing it around and shoving each other out of the way all in the name of saving 50 - 70%. Because we had just wandered into said sale, I figured I'd poke around and see if there wasn't anything I couldn't live without.
It was a little crazy, but overall people were polite to each other. Clothing was strewn all over the place, but it was still searchable. It wasn't long before I found myself with a complete stranger, who was talking to me as if I was her mentor/sister/mother/best friend.
She started out with: "Oooh, there was this great shirt right here a few minutes ago that I was considering trying on. But...........I can't find it now.................of course........." and she was looking DIRECTLY at me. I smiled a weak smile and shifted over a bit ... away from her. That was a mistake.
She then found a shirt she apparently liked better, and wanted me to tell her whether it would look good on her or not?!! She said "WHAT DO YOU THINK? It's one of those that goes around your neck, and it's sexy. It's velvet. I couldn't wear it to work though. WHAT DO YOU THINK? Do you think it's too chunky? Huh? Huh? Huh?
And there was no mistaking me as an employee of this store. I had waaaaay to frumpy a sweater on and I am not a size 2.
I finally said "uhhhh, I uhhhh, not so good with other peoples' clothing choices" and then I bolted.
Sunday Mr. Zoom and I needed some food and fast. We ended up at McDonalds. It's the most godawful thing we could eat, we know. But damn it tastes good for being so horrible. Anyway, I wasn't feeling that great so I went ahead and went to the McD's in basically my pj bottoms, slippers, a torn up t-shirt and my hair piled up on my head. No makeup, no preparation, just pure, unaltered, post nap nappiness.
I figured "Heck. It's a McD's. Nobody there is going to know who you are or ever see you again." And I was right.
The thing I didn't count on was that a lady would approach me (Mr. Zoom was still wranglling napkins and ketchup when this happened) and say to me "Well, I just don't know where to sit."
Huh?
She was there with her husband. She had a Sunday paper with her. He was ordering food and I guess she was in charge of locating a table.
I'd really like to wash my invisible T-shirt. If I could just see it.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Booty. And Not Necessarily the Good Kind.
FAM called me this week to tell me I should drop by the house to pick up some "stuff" she had for me. My Dad is retired, and my Mom just got about a month in between her job assignments.
This is dangerous. Both of them are at home with everything and nothing to do. This leads to volleys of crazy that sometimes result in hurt feelings. With the extra energy, they have decided to spring clean the entire house.
In addition to this, Mom decided to take an art clas in the evenings. Now, I love my Mom. I love my Dad. But, they are insane. I am insane as well, as one who is raised by wolves acts wolflike.
Mom's class is on Thursday nights. I figured it would be a good time to get over there and pick up the "stuff". It's a lot easier to hide the look of horror from the person trying to be nice to you when they aren't around.
FAM is queen of the pack rattedness. Ever since I moved out of the parental house in 1991, I've been getting these little care packages made up of the stuff my Mom has purchased over her lifetime...for no reason in particular.
In order to stay alive, I've learned that I need to take all of the offering and sort through it later at home. Where Mr. Zoom and I can gague the level of my parents' latest game of Crazy Crazy by the items we are given.
Behold tonight's score:
Now, the books are absoulety welcome in my home. The Disney books were mine as a kid, although I never took to the one cook book even wrapped in a Disney disguise. The other two books were given to my Dad in 1955, by his parents. There's an inscription inside of them that says so. This is why we sort later. Most of the time there's a gem in the clutter.
The items that I don't quite understand are:
This is dangerous. Both of them are at home with everything and nothing to do. This leads to volleys of crazy that sometimes result in hurt feelings. With the extra energy, they have decided to spring clean the entire house.
In addition to this, Mom decided to take an art clas in the evenings. Now, I love my Mom. I love my Dad. But, they are insane. I am insane as well, as one who is raised by wolves acts wolflike.
Mom's class is on Thursday nights. I figured it would be a good time to get over there and pick up the "stuff". It's a lot easier to hide the look of horror from the person trying to be nice to you when they aren't around.
FAM is queen of the pack rattedness. Ever since I moved out of the parental house in 1991, I've been getting these little care packages made up of the stuff my Mom has purchased over her lifetime...for no reason in particular.
In order to stay alive, I've learned that I need to take all of the offering and sort through it later at home. Where Mr. Zoom and I can gague the level of my parents' latest game of Crazy Crazy by the items we are given.
Behold tonight's score:
Now, the books are absoulety welcome in my home. The Disney books were mine as a kid, although I never took to the one cook book even wrapped in a Disney disguise. The other two books were given to my Dad in 1955, by his parents. There's an inscription inside of them that says so. This is why we sort later. Most of the time there's a gem in the clutter.
The items that I don't quite understand are:
- A Dilbert Calendar for 2006 - She gave me this exact calendar for Christmas. Now I have two, and I'm guessing she bought a whole baker's dozen of them at Costco in July of last year if correctly recall her Christmas shopping habits.
- A candle. A blueBEARY scented candle, that is indeed, blue and has a picture of a Teddy Bear on it. It smells like someone mixed blue Otter pops and baby poop in a blender and then made a candle out of it.
- A remote control mini car and charger/controller. At least this doesn't smell.
- A couple of blank, decorative journals. I bet she bought a baker's dozen of these at Costco too.
- A fold a day calendar for 2006. The idea is that every day you create a new little airplane with the page. Again with the calendars.
- And the best - An envelope with some pictures of my kitty which I always appreciate... AND A CANCELLED STAMP FROM A CHRISTMAS CARD that they received this year.
When I was like...6 (1975) , I think I might have thought about a stamp collection hobby. It never fully materialized, and to tell you the truth I was probably just looking to cut something up that day. Cutting the stamps out of envelopes was "acceptable". Now, indelibly burned in my Mom's control panel is "Zoom collects stamps!". Ever since 1975, my mother has been peppering my life with random stamp offerings. It's absolutely amazing. The same woman who can't remember that she already gave me a Dilbert calendar for 2006....still gives me stamps (or in this case A stamp) for a hobby I NEVER EVEN TRULY HAD!
And how does she choose? They get about 100 cards at Christmas, and she gave me ONE STAMP! When my Grandma passed away after a long battle with Alzheimers, we found a huge box of - yes - stamps that Grandma had peeled off of envelopes and stashed away. My mom handed them over to me and waited for the glee I was supposed to exhibit at having such a large contribution to my life's hobby.
After loading the car with my treasure, I went into Dad's office to see what he was up to. Take a look at the next picture, and see if you recognize the Crazy Ball that my Dad spiked over the net this month to win the competition:
- I said "What is that round thing in the middle?" He said "It's the power source! You see, there's always been a light there, but it never worked. So I took it out and installed that. Isn't it neat-o?" I said "Yeah, let me get my camera. Mr. Zoom is going to want evidence that this really exists." He said "oooo! Look how I can position the lights to point wherever I want!"
- This is obviously designed to BE MOUNTED ON THE CEILING. However, what you might not be able to see is that the ceiling in this room is already covered by the world's largest ceiling fan. WHICH ALREADY HAS A LARGE LIGHT IN IT. A light so bright, that when it is turned on, moths on the other side of the world begin to migrate to my parents' house.
GOD I love my family!
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
How My ATM Card Would Have Made Dyson Proud
Tonight after work I stopped at the grocery store for a salad. The poor soul in line behind me got the scare of her life, I think.
I was getting ready to pay when my atm card flew out of my hands and landed on the floor at my feet. I bent over to pick it up and spent the next thirty seconds pushing the card around on the floor like a demented kitty cat playing with it's prey.
The damn thing was positioned perfectly so as not to allow any kind leverage on it. The kind of grip/leverage that would allow me to PICK IT UP AND USE IT instead of schooching it around in a circle. While I struggled with the card, my purse came loose from my shoulers, slid down my arm and knocked me right in the head.
That's when things got serious. I stood up, put my purse on the check out counter and rolled up my sleeves. I said a loud to the checker and the woman behind me. "Uh. I seem to have dropped my card. Hold on a second, I think I can get it..."
BRILLIANT! They were painfully aware of my situation. And now I was narrating my own embarrassment. Days don't get much more fun than that.
I tried everything. I tried the push down on it realy hard with one hand hoping it would stick thing. I tried using my shoe and one hand, then my shoe and two hands. Then both feet and both hands. All it would do was glide around on the floor.
I began talking to it: "YOU ARE NOT A RACE CAR! Stoppit with the vacuum suction!"
BRILLIANT! Now people HAD to be scared. Some how, a long time ago, I learned that race cars are built so that when they go fast, the vacuum created up under the car helps to keep them stuck to the road. Hell, this might not even be accurate but apparently my brain - if that is what I am to call it - decided that little bit of trivia was a perfect analogy.
FINALLY it came up off the floor. I don't even know how I finally got it loose from the floor, but OH MY GOSH was I grateful.
And then I started to laugh. I got those giggles you get when you aren't supposed to laugh. The ones that hit you in a meeting or anywhere else where it would be better to be as quiet as possible. And I made myself tear up I was laughing so hard and shaking my head at myself.
The woman behind me and the grocery store checker were stunned, or terrified. I'm not sure which. There was not even a smirk or a smile between them.
I was getting ready to pay when my atm card flew out of my hands and landed on the floor at my feet. I bent over to pick it up and spent the next thirty seconds pushing the card around on the floor like a demented kitty cat playing with it's prey.
The damn thing was positioned perfectly so as not to allow any kind leverage on it. The kind of grip/leverage that would allow me to PICK IT UP AND USE IT instead of schooching it around in a circle. While I struggled with the card, my purse came loose from my shoulers, slid down my arm and knocked me right in the head.
That's when things got serious. I stood up, put my purse on the check out counter and rolled up my sleeves. I said a loud to the checker and the woman behind me. "Uh. I seem to have dropped my card. Hold on a second, I think I can get it..."
BRILLIANT! They were painfully aware of my situation. And now I was narrating my own embarrassment. Days don't get much more fun than that.
I tried everything. I tried the push down on it realy hard with one hand hoping it would stick thing. I tried using my shoe and one hand, then my shoe and two hands. Then both feet and both hands. All it would do was glide around on the floor.
I began talking to it: "YOU ARE NOT A RACE CAR! Stoppit with the vacuum suction!"
BRILLIANT! Now people HAD to be scared. Some how, a long time ago, I learned that race cars are built so that when they go fast, the vacuum created up under the car helps to keep them stuck to the road. Hell, this might not even be accurate but apparently my brain - if that is what I am to call it - decided that little bit of trivia was a perfect analogy.
FINALLY it came up off the floor. I don't even know how I finally got it loose from the floor, but OH MY GOSH was I grateful.
And then I started to laugh. I got those giggles you get when you aren't supposed to laugh. The ones that hit you in a meeting or anywhere else where it would be better to be as quiet as possible. And I made myself tear up I was laughing so hard and shaking my head at myself.
The woman behind me and the grocery store checker were stunned, or terrified. I'm not sure which. There was not even a smirk or a smile between them.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Does Anyone Know Where the Vanilla Folders Are?
Ah. Finally an employee I can relate to. I smiled the biggest smile ever when she asked that question in front of 3 of us. She couldn't see me, her back was to me. But big Mo Mo did say "Don't you mean MANILLA folders?" And I said to myself "Aw, he just likes to add MAN to everything for his own benefit, but on this particular matter, he's right."
I'm not sure when the gift of partial speech filtration was granted to me, but I can say it has saved me from getting fired at least 49 times that I personally know of.
Today was a huge day at my office for the Zooms. Namely, I was the only Zoom there. And that's how it will be from now on.
Mr. Zoom accepted a superfantastic position at another law firm. This has been in the works for a very long time. Today was the first day at his new job for him. It was my first day at an old familiar job without him.
It hurt. It physically hurt me to be without him. Which is really quite retarded, since after arriving at the office we hardly ever physically saw each other. But, just having him in the same building with me was a huge comfort. HUGE. And oh so very convenient.
I didn't have to remember things like keys, cell phone, money.... my head or pants. He was always there to take care of me. And sometimes, sometimes I got to take care of him. I would try to make sure he had a Mocha Frappichappinowino [spelling the coffee isn't my forte] every day. After arriving at the office I'd put it on the ledge of my desk and he'd pick it up after checking in on the server room.
*sigh*
And honestly, this very situation is the exact reason I always railed against his "taking care of me". I was sure that some day I'd have to fend for myself. It took me 34 years to live on my own and be good at it. I knew how quickly those lessons could be forgotten. And that scared me.
It still does.
But only because now I know that I can take care of myself just fine. Sure, I'm going to be driving to or from work someday and realize I've forgotten my cell phone/wallet/...and probably even my pants at some point - but I'll be ok.
The thing that scares me now is how much I miss him.
I've been hesitant to even write about this transition. I want nothing but the best for him and there's absolutely no question that this new job couldn't be a better decision for him.
But I know his heart and how much he wants to protect me. I don't want my temporary flailing in adjusting to affect (effect?) his new employment.
I'm going to be ok, Mr. Zoom. It's going to be an adjustment, but at least I already know the difference between a manilla and a vanilla folder.
I'm not sure when the gift of partial speech filtration was granted to me, but I can say it has saved me from getting fired at least 49 times that I personally know of.
Today was a huge day at my office for the Zooms. Namely, I was the only Zoom there. And that's how it will be from now on.
Mr. Zoom accepted a superfantastic position at another law firm. This has been in the works for a very long time. Today was the first day at his new job for him. It was my first day at an old familiar job without him.
It hurt. It physically hurt me to be without him. Which is really quite retarded, since after arriving at the office we hardly ever physically saw each other. But, just having him in the same building with me was a huge comfort. HUGE. And oh so very convenient.
I didn't have to remember things like keys, cell phone, money.... my head or pants. He was always there to take care of me. And sometimes, sometimes I got to take care of him. I would try to make sure he had a Mocha Frappichappinowino [spelling the coffee isn't my forte] every day. After arriving at the office I'd put it on the ledge of my desk and he'd pick it up after checking in on the server room.
*sigh*
And honestly, this very situation is the exact reason I always railed against his "taking care of me". I was sure that some day I'd have to fend for myself. It took me 34 years to live on my own and be good at it. I knew how quickly those lessons could be forgotten. And that scared me.
It still does.
But only because now I know that I can take care of myself just fine. Sure, I'm going to be driving to or from work someday and realize I've forgotten my cell phone/wallet/...and probably even my pants at some point - but I'll be ok.
The thing that scares me now is how much I miss him.
I've been hesitant to even write about this transition. I want nothing but the best for him and there's absolutely no question that this new job couldn't be a better decision for him.
But I know his heart and how much he wants to protect me. I don't want my temporary flailing in adjusting to affect (effect?) his new employment.
I'm going to be ok, Mr. Zoom. It's going to be an adjustment, but at least I already know the difference between a manilla and a vanilla folder.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
It Was In My Pants.
I've been on vacation for a week. The best part about vacation is sleeping in whenever I want.
The second best thing is wearing my jeans and whatever sweater/sweat shirt I can steal from Mr. Zoom's closet.
Mr. Zoom came down with the latest flu thing going around so I did a lot of running around on my own. The thing was, I couldn't seem to walk into or out of a store without tripping the security system. I hadn't even bought anything, so I had no items with me that might set it off.
Nobody made any sudden moves toward me, so I figured security - whatever/whoever it was knew it was a false alarm. Annoying, but at least I wasn't on my way to jail. I had promised Mr. Zoom when I left that I would not get arrested.
When I got home I went to our loo. And that is where I discovered that my pants were hiding something from me.
I ran into the computer room with my pants around my thighs, waving my monkey hands around in the air and saying "Look! Look what I found in my pants!" Mr. Zoom calmly turned from his computer and waited for the explanation.
"Remember all of those jeans I bought right before Christmas?! They all have a thingie! They set off alarms!" He just shook his head and started to laugh.
The security tag is encased in a cloth tag that actually says "Remove before washing or wearing" on it. This is located in the front part of the pants, inside, just to the right of the zipper. Where supposedly, normal human beings notice a big white cloth tag with a message on it. Of course I hadn't bothered to do that with any of my new pants. I had even washed them a few times.
It reminds me of when I first started finding those little squares of paper with metallic designs on them in books I would buy. I had NO IDEA they were theft deterrent devices. I simply thought that they were left over from packaging/shipping of some kind. Like an alien chad or something?
And now every time I go into a store and trip the security system, I'll have to look in my pants.
The second best thing is wearing my jeans and whatever sweater/sweat shirt I can steal from Mr. Zoom's closet.
Mr. Zoom came down with the latest flu thing going around so I did a lot of running around on my own. The thing was, I couldn't seem to walk into or out of a store without tripping the security system. I hadn't even bought anything, so I had no items with me that might set it off.
Nobody made any sudden moves toward me, so I figured security - whatever/whoever it was knew it was a false alarm. Annoying, but at least I wasn't on my way to jail. I had promised Mr. Zoom when I left that I would not get arrested.
When I got home I went to our loo. And that is where I discovered that my pants were hiding something from me.
I ran into the computer room with my pants around my thighs, waving my monkey hands around in the air and saying "Look! Look what I found in my pants!" Mr. Zoom calmly turned from his computer and waited for the explanation.
"Remember all of those jeans I bought right before Christmas?! They all have a thingie! They set off alarms!" He just shook his head and started to laugh.
The security tag is encased in a cloth tag that actually says "Remove before washing or wearing" on it. This is located in the front part of the pants, inside, just to the right of the zipper. Where supposedly, normal human beings notice a big white cloth tag with a message on it. Of course I hadn't bothered to do that with any of my new pants. I had even washed them a few times.
It reminds me of when I first started finding those little squares of paper with metallic designs on them in books I would buy. I had NO IDEA they were theft deterrent devices. I simply thought that they were left over from packaging/shipping of some kind. Like an alien chad or something?
And now every time I go into a store and trip the security system, I'll have to look in my pants.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
How Complete Strangers Touched My Boobs and Saw Me Naked
That title up there? Shocking, no? You are probably thinking "GET OUT. What, did you drink ALL of the booze in California and live to tell about it?"
No. This is actually the story of buying a wedding dress from February of 2005.
I don't do well with assistance when I'm buying anything as it is. Give me self serve. Give me the pile of shoe boxes on the floor so that I can dig around for my size and get out. If you want to guarantee I'm not going to buy something, put it in one of those display cases where I have to ask someone to take one out for me, or make me ask for my size from the "back" or off the wall.
I knew that wedding dresses were an entirely different situation and that meant I'd have to at least try not to flee the store screaming when an employee led me through the process.
That running screaming part was not so much an issue after the "consultant" at the first store walked up to me, put her hands on my girls and said "....hmmmm - I'd say 36 C?" After that, I was a tazered woman, incapable of logical thought. Also, I knew my girls were Ds. I thought "Felt me up AND got the size wrong. So far I'm not encouraged."
This woman with the large hair and coordinating orange outfit on was acting a lot like my prom date from 1987. She reached for my waist and then squealed "Ooooooh! How tiny you are there!" Thank goodness she didn't go for the hips. They are far from tiny and have been rumored to bite.
Her glee was squashed like a Mormon tasting a caffiene free diet Coke when I informed her that I was only able to spend a certain amount of money on a dress. She quickly lost interest and tossed an ill fitting undergarment at me.
Then came the naked. Once one is down to her undies, the store undergarment is wrangled on. And it's not an item that you can put on by yourself. Which leads to more cold hand action for the girls and the waist. They claim they are showing you how to get the best look out of your dress...I mean gown. All it ever did for my girls was make them look like they belonged on Annette Funicello. I wanted to be able to get close to my husband (to be), not impale him. Death by boobies - and on our wedding day too. That's not right.
This orange lady helped me in and out of about 12 dresses. These things are heavy and awkward. They take at least 1 other person to get them on and off. And most of the time there's an entire herd of clasps, zippers and buttons in the back that require advanced degrees and 4 hands for proper activation.
And I got to do this again, with a whole new set of strangers because I didn't like any of the dresses at the first shop.
After a while, I got used to it. At the second shop I pretty much just held my hands in the air and offered up my girls for fitting.
And you'd think this would be over once a dress was found. But it's not. You have to come back for a bunch of stupid fittings complete with girl adjustments by yet ANOTHER group of complete strangers. The turnover rate of employees appears to be terribly high.
Then there is the bustle. Every stupid wedding dress with any kind of a train needs a stupid bustle. Yet, every bridal shop acts as if they've never heard of one before, and SURPRISE, it's another $100 or whatever. Plus, you get to stand there with some lady all up under the backside of your dress while she pins the thing in place. Then you have to come back AGAIN to make sure the bustle came out alright. And they won't release the damn thing until you put it on.
And then there's the whole "person doing the bustling learning curve". You get to stand there in the dress, with the back flipped up so they can see what they are going to have to do on the big night. How my maid of honor saw past my big old nekkid butt [thong undies] looking at her the whole time I'll never know. I kept waiting for someone to say "now cough for me please."
And forget about any kind of a "slip." Unless of course, you love stewing in your own sweat.
The day of the wedding I was being helped into the dress by my maid of honor when the photographer came around the corner shouting "Oh my gosh you are naked! Ooops, so sorry! But I can't go back out this way [pointing], there's too much mud. Can I come through this way?" I, of course, let him through.
I now believe that buying/selling wedding dresses is as close to prostitution as one can get, without having to actually whip out a condom. You go in, you pick from the racks, you pay your money and you get quite a bit of action. Not always in that order though.
No. This is actually the story of buying a wedding dress from February of 2005.
I don't do well with assistance when I'm buying anything as it is. Give me self serve. Give me the pile of shoe boxes on the floor so that I can dig around for my size and get out. If you want to guarantee I'm not going to buy something, put it in one of those display cases where I have to ask someone to take one out for me, or make me ask for my size from the "back" or off the wall.
I knew that wedding dresses were an entirely different situation and that meant I'd have to at least try not to flee the store screaming when an employee led me through the process.
That running screaming part was not so much an issue after the "consultant" at the first store walked up to me, put her hands on my girls and said "....hmmmm - I'd say 36 C?" After that, I was a tazered woman, incapable of logical thought. Also, I knew my girls were Ds. I thought "Felt me up AND got the size wrong. So far I'm not encouraged."
This woman with the large hair and coordinating orange outfit on was acting a lot like my prom date from 1987. She reached for my waist and then squealed "Ooooooh! How tiny you are there!" Thank goodness she didn't go for the hips. They are far from tiny and have been rumored to bite.
Her glee was squashed like a Mormon tasting a caffiene free diet Coke when I informed her that I was only able to spend a certain amount of money on a dress. She quickly lost interest and tossed an ill fitting undergarment at me.
Then came the naked. Once one is down to her undies, the store undergarment is wrangled on. And it's not an item that you can put on by yourself. Which leads to more cold hand action for the girls and the waist. They claim they are showing you how to get the best look out of your dress...I mean gown. All it ever did for my girls was make them look like they belonged on Annette Funicello. I wanted to be able to get close to my husband (to be), not impale him. Death by boobies - and on our wedding day too. That's not right.
This orange lady helped me in and out of about 12 dresses. These things are heavy and awkward. They take at least 1 other person to get them on and off. And most of the time there's an entire herd of clasps, zippers and buttons in the back that require advanced degrees and 4 hands for proper activation.
And I got to do this again, with a whole new set of strangers because I didn't like any of the dresses at the first shop.
After a while, I got used to it. At the second shop I pretty much just held my hands in the air and offered up my girls for fitting.
And you'd think this would be over once a dress was found. But it's not. You have to come back for a bunch of stupid fittings complete with girl adjustments by yet ANOTHER group of complete strangers. The turnover rate of employees appears to be terribly high.
Then there is the bustle. Every stupid wedding dress with any kind of a train needs a stupid bustle. Yet, every bridal shop acts as if they've never heard of one before, and SURPRISE, it's another $100 or whatever. Plus, you get to stand there with some lady all up under the backside of your dress while she pins the thing in place. Then you have to come back AGAIN to make sure the bustle came out alright. And they won't release the damn thing until you put it on.
And then there's the whole "person doing the bustling learning curve". You get to stand there in the dress, with the back flipped up so they can see what they are going to have to do on the big night. How my maid of honor saw past my big old nekkid butt [thong undies] looking at her the whole time I'll never know. I kept waiting for someone to say "now cough for me please."
And forget about any kind of a "slip." Unless of course, you love stewing in your own sweat.
The day of the wedding I was being helped into the dress by my maid of honor when the photographer came around the corner shouting "Oh my gosh you are naked! Ooops, so sorry! But I can't go back out this way [pointing], there's too much mud. Can I come through this way?" I, of course, let him through.
I now believe that buying/selling wedding dresses is as close to prostitution as one can get, without having to actually whip out a condom. You go in, you pick from the racks, you pay your money and you get quite a bit of action. Not always in that order though.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Oh Relax. It's Not Like I Fed Them My Own Cooking!
We invited our friends over for New Years. At least 4 of our friends' households have children that they brought with them. Two of the children were under a year, so there wasn't a whole lot of trouble I could get into there.
The other two sets were - uh - about 4 years old. I think.
The older children had batman figures, coloring books, cars, froot loop neclaces - just stuff everywhere. And we didn't mind at all. It was great to watch other people's kids have fun. Also, the parents got to tell them "no running." or "One......two...... don't make me do it....three." All the stuff I'm absolutely incapable of doing.
Later in the evening I was givng Hershey bars to one child. His mom was right there, and I asked before I did it. I'm not a total idiot, although I am 75% pure. At least. As you will see.
One of the other ones approaches me and says "Can I have 2 candy bars just like Joey?" Way to go, lady with the barren loins. Way to give one kid something without thinking the others would want the same.
I tracked down his mom and asked if it was ok to give him some too. She only let him have one. I felt like a giant What Not To Do poster. For the slow class.
Later, as I was working in the kitchen, child number 2's mom approached me and said "Do you have some granulated sugar and a teaspoon? Maybe I can feed that to my kid."
I said "How about a funnel?"
I knew she was half kidding. And I was too. I don't even own a funnel. But I did have my eyes on the drawer with the turkey baster in it.
The other two sets were - uh - about 4 years old. I think.
The older children had batman figures, coloring books, cars, froot loop neclaces - just stuff everywhere. And we didn't mind at all. It was great to watch other people's kids have fun. Also, the parents got to tell them "no running." or "One......two...... don't make me do it....three." All the stuff I'm absolutely incapable of doing.
Later in the evening I was givng Hershey bars to one child. His mom was right there, and I asked before I did it. I'm not a total idiot, although I am 75% pure. At least. As you will see.
One of the other ones approaches me and says "Can I have 2 candy bars just like Joey?" Way to go, lady with the barren loins. Way to give one kid something without thinking the others would want the same.
I tracked down his mom and asked if it was ok to give him some too. She only let him have one. I felt like a giant What Not To Do poster. For the slow class.
Later, as I was working in the kitchen, child number 2's mom approached me and said "Do you have some granulated sugar and a teaspoon? Maybe I can feed that to my kid."
I said "How about a funnel?"
I knew she was half kidding. And I was too. I don't even own a funnel. But I did have my eyes on the drawer with the turkey baster in it.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Earlybird Special - Two Please
Isn't it sad when older people can't get a grip on how much water their bridge has been over and just deal with it?
Mr. Zoom and I made an especially grand showing of just how ungraceful we are with aging today. At the office.
We arrived today to find a brand new employee at the firm. He works in our office services department - which means he has to walk the floors all day and deliver stuff. It's one of the few positions that pretty much guarantees you will meet everyone in the office.
This kid, honest-to-goodness, looks like he's 12.
Mr. Zoom: "Did his mommy drop him off here?"
Me: "I wonder if Santa brought him that tie that he's wearing?"
Mr. Zoom: "Does management know we are in violation of child labor laws?"
Me: "If he gets nap time, I'm going straight to management with a complaint."
Mr. Zoom: "Does he even know where the bike locks are?"
The laughing stopped when I learned he just turned 21. 21!! What's next? I guess I'll know it's time to go buy myself a Lark* when I start mistaking 45 year olds for 30?
And then on the way home tonight, Mr. Zoom turned on one of the features in his car that we haven't used before. It has ... I can barely say it with a straight face ...
heated seats.
Why would anyone want that? I would guess people who live in really cold places would. I think it just came on the car, it wasn't like Mr. Zoom wanted it special.
Tonight it was damn cold. Cold as in, California cold. Like 60 degrees. So he clicked on my bun warmer. After a while I said "Ok, that's enough. We can turn that off now. That kinda feels like I peed my pants."
*Lark = I don't know if this item is known everywhere, but it's a motor scooter that is typically advertised as a tool for older people to get around with.
Mr. Zoom and I made an especially grand showing of just how ungraceful we are with aging today. At the office.
We arrived today to find a brand new employee at the firm. He works in our office services department - which means he has to walk the floors all day and deliver stuff. It's one of the few positions that pretty much guarantees you will meet everyone in the office.
This kid, honest-to-goodness, looks like he's 12.
Mr. Zoom: "Did his mommy drop him off here?"
Me: "I wonder if Santa brought him that tie that he's wearing?"
Mr. Zoom: "Does management know we are in violation of child labor laws?"
Me: "If he gets nap time, I'm going straight to management with a complaint."
Mr. Zoom: "Does he even know where the bike locks are?"
The laughing stopped when I learned he just turned 21. 21!! What's next? I guess I'll know it's time to go buy myself a Lark* when I start mistaking 45 year olds for 30?
And then on the way home tonight, Mr. Zoom turned on one of the features in his car that we haven't used before. It has ... I can barely say it with a straight face ...
heated seats.
Why would anyone want that? I would guess people who live in really cold places would. I think it just came on the car, it wasn't like Mr. Zoom wanted it special.
Tonight it was damn cold. Cold as in, California cold. Like 60 degrees. So he clicked on my bun warmer. After a while I said "Ok, that's enough. We can turn that off now. That kinda feels like I peed my pants."
*Lark = I don't know if this item is known everywhere, but it's a motor scooter that is typically advertised as a tool for older people to get around with.
Monday, December 26, 2005
It Doesn't Get Much More Bloggable
Oh thank goodness Christmas is over. Not that I don't appreciate a paid day off of work and all - but there wasn't enough sleeping in for it to feel like real time off.
Last Wednesday I went to the Dr. to have a suspicious mole removed from my back. I've had this done before, so I thought it would be no big deal.
That was the big fat lie I told myself, and Mr. Zoom.
Mr. Zoom got to keep quiet as I dug my fingernails into his palm. While I squealed "ow ow ow ow ow OW OW OW ow ow ow. OW. OW OW OW. And that was just the numbing the skin, you won't feel the needle (lie) part.
All the requisite areas did go numb, but then my imagination went to work with every tug and push that I knew was happening, but couldn't really "feel". And I started sweating. I was already lying down, so I wasn't in danger of fainting. But you wouldn't have known it by my wailing.
I kept apologizing to everyone. I felt so stupid. I was only having a little chunk of my back removed and I KNOW the Dr. has seen and performed far worse extractions. My whining when stressed is like a pressure valve that releases my retardation slowly so I don't flip out and run out of the room. Without a shirt, no less.
But here's the thing. The Dr. decided to share with Mr. Zoom and I a little story about his past. In an effort to distract me.
He said "When I was younger I wanted to be a psychiatrist because I couldn't stand the sight of blood. Then my brother cured me of all of that."
Of course we asked "HOW?"
He said "He did something that any medical student these days WOULD NOT DO. He took me into his lab when he was taking anatomy class. He showed me the cadaver he was working on. Then he skinned it's face and wore it on his own head and started running around with it."
THAT'S SUPPOSED TO PUT ME AT EASE? And, HOW does that alleviate anyone's fear of blood? Shouldn't that reinforce that kind of phobia?
Mr. Zoom said what I was thinking: "Are you serious?" He said yes. It was all true.
Swell. My gatekeepter physician is Buffalo Bill's brother. I kept waiting for the receptionist to lower a basket in my lap and scream "PUT THE LOTION IN THE BASKET! NO FUNNY BUSINESS!"
Last Wednesday I went to the Dr. to have a suspicious mole removed from my back. I've had this done before, so I thought it would be no big deal.
That was the big fat lie I told myself, and Mr. Zoom.
Mr. Zoom got to keep quiet as I dug my fingernails into his palm. While I squealed "ow ow ow ow ow OW OW OW ow ow ow. OW. OW OW OW. And that was just the numbing the skin, you won't feel the needle (lie) part.
All the requisite areas did go numb, but then my imagination went to work with every tug and push that I knew was happening, but couldn't really "feel". And I started sweating. I was already lying down, so I wasn't in danger of fainting. But you wouldn't have known it by my wailing.
I kept apologizing to everyone. I felt so stupid. I was only having a little chunk of my back removed and I KNOW the Dr. has seen and performed far worse extractions. My whining when stressed is like a pressure valve that releases my retardation slowly so I don't flip out and run out of the room. Without a shirt, no less.
But here's the thing. The Dr. decided to share with Mr. Zoom and I a little story about his past. In an effort to distract me.
He said "When I was younger I wanted to be a psychiatrist because I couldn't stand the sight of blood. Then my brother cured me of all of that."
Of course we asked "HOW?"
He said "He did something that any medical student these days WOULD NOT DO. He took me into his lab when he was taking anatomy class. He showed me the cadaver he was working on. Then he skinned it's face and wore it on his own head and started running around with it."
THAT'S SUPPOSED TO PUT ME AT EASE? And, HOW does that alleviate anyone's fear of blood? Shouldn't that reinforce that kind of phobia?
Mr. Zoom said what I was thinking: "Are you serious?" He said yes. It was all true.
Swell. My gatekeepter physician is Buffalo Bill's brother. I kept waiting for the receptionist to lower a basket in my lap and scream "PUT THE LOTION IN THE BASKET! NO FUNNY BUSINESS!"
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Do Not Lie Down Within 30 Minutes...or?
This is how I Christmas shop. I see things and I run towards them with a camera. It's very annoying for poor Mr. Zoom who has to try and keep me on track.
This week is brutal. I'm taking care of business, holiday and otherwise, in the hours before, during and after work this week. I absolutely HATE the stress the "holidays" create. Yet I LOVE finding the perfect gift for someone. But then I can't hold onto it until "the day".
It's hard being me.
I had intended to take a picture of the prescription bottle I received from the pharmacy the other day. The prescription is for my stupid uterus and its monthly girly squeeze fest also known as menstral cramps.
I just burned the eyes of any male readers, and probably some female ones too. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
So I get the refill and there are 5 little colorful warning labels on there accompanying the big white one we are all accustomed to. At first it was all the usual stuff: Take with food, take with plenty of water, limit loud mouth soup...etc.
Then I see: "Do not lie down for at least 30 minutes after taking this medication."
You.must.be.joking. I can't even keep myself verticle for 30 whole minutes without falling down EVEN WITHOUT TAKING MEDICATION. I turned to Mr. Zoom and said "Oh NO! Last night I took one of these while laying down! Do you think I'll live?"
Friday, December 16, 2005
When Moms Google: The Sequel
Does anyone remember that e-mail that went around way back - feels like a thousand years now - the e-mail about how one should not flash their headlights at an automobile that had no headlights on? The one that said something to the effect of doing so would insure your unwilling participation in a gang ritual and you would be killed?
It was one of the very first urban legends that my FAM fell for. Obviously this joke was far more effective back when most vehicles didn't have automatic lights or daytime running lights.
I can still remember the day she called me to "warn" me of this deadly trap. And how she made me a copy or three - one for me and others for me to pass along. I gently took the wad of paper and so was born my newest bottom desk drawer file entitled:
I'm Not Ready to Tell Her It's Not Real.
Because honestly? Telling her the truth would be like informing a cute little 5 year old child that Santa/Batman/Retirement/the Easter Bunny/Great Pumpkin/Tooth Fairy and Fairness just don't exist in this world. And there's more, but I need to give you this helmet to wear first.
There would be angry denial and then debate. Oh the debate. And she's a lot better at holding on to the mouse than I am, so I'd never get to prove my point by showing her any number of websites that document just these things.
It's been a long road to the technology embracement. However flawed it might be, I don't want to crush that.
Which is why the other day when she called to tell me she saw a news story on the internet that was funny, I went into minimal conversation mode and started flipping through the rolodex of "reasons to get off the phone with Mom because I can't talk about the make-believe with her".
Her news story was about a screech owl that had been found in some couple's Christmas tree, AND that this particular owl was stoned. She finished that story with "And you simply must see the expression on this owl!"
Into the file went the conversation. Although invisible, that's where it went.
Imagine my shock when I actually found this story on some credible looking news website:
http://www.nbc-2.com/articles/readarticle.asp?articleid=5232&z=3&p=
NOW I NEED A HELMET.
It was one of the very first urban legends that my FAM fell for. Obviously this joke was far more effective back when most vehicles didn't have automatic lights or daytime running lights.
I can still remember the day she called me to "warn" me of this deadly trap. And how she made me a copy or three - one for me and others for me to pass along. I gently took the wad of paper and so was born my newest bottom desk drawer file entitled:
I'm Not Ready to Tell Her It's Not Real.
Because honestly? Telling her the truth would be like informing a cute little 5 year old child that Santa/Batman/Retirement/the Easter Bunny/Great Pumpkin/Tooth Fairy and Fairness just don't exist in this world. And there's more, but I need to give you this helmet to wear first.
There would be angry denial and then debate. Oh the debate. And she's a lot better at holding on to the mouse than I am, so I'd never get to prove my point by showing her any number of websites that document just these things.
It's been a long road to the technology embracement. However flawed it might be, I don't want to crush that.
Which is why the other day when she called to tell me she saw a news story on the internet that was funny, I went into minimal conversation mode and started flipping through the rolodex of "reasons to get off the phone with Mom because I can't talk about the make-believe with her".
Her news story was about a screech owl that had been found in some couple's Christmas tree, AND that this particular owl was stoned. She finished that story with "And you simply must see the expression on this owl!"
Into the file went the conversation. Although invisible, that's where it went.
Imagine my shock when I actually found this story on some credible looking news website:
http://www.nbc-2.com/articles/readarticle.asp?articleid=5232&z=3&p=
NOW I NEED A HELMET.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
When Moms Google
What's scarier than Banana Guy walking toward me with a baggie full of trail mix? My formerly Amish Mom calling to tell me she tracked down an elementary school chum of mine. USING GOOGLE.
You'd have to know her to understand the true shock of the fact that she did it pretty much on her own. There weren't any fights between us in front of her computer where the winner of the fight was the one who was still holding the mouse after the insults flew. Because she who still has control of the mouse is the one who gets to talk.
At least that's what her computer manual says.
I still can't get FAM (Formerly Amish Mom) to understand her MSN account, nor can I get her to actually get any e-mail out of it because her computer is hooked up to a stone tablet and a chisel - also known as dial up net service...
Yet she called me to say "Oh, hey. I found _____ childhood friend of yours on the internet! Want to know what he/she is up to? I sent him/her a letter.
It should be noted that she didn't send an e-mail. She sent an honest to goodness, antique, ink pen to paper, snail mail.
And I checked up on her research (without telling her, of course) and she had indeed found the person she was looking for. And their e-mail address was right there in really large, let me help you contact me type type. *sigh*
And since I'm well on my way to being disowned by my FAM, I might as well add nearly divorced to the list as well.
Hopefully what appears below are two links to some, um.....video that I took of Mr. Zoom.
When he didn't know I had figured out that my camera had video, and how to use it. He's much more carful about that now. In this first one, the audio outruns the video for some reason...so it ends up being totally out of sinc. But you still get the idea:
Mr. Zoom:
Supply Brow Monster - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
And just in case I haven't insured my sleeping arrangement of sofa out in the cold:
Mr. Zoom:
Slap Dat Ass - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
You'd have to know her to understand the true shock of the fact that she did it pretty much on her own. There weren't any fights between us in front of her computer where the winner of the fight was the one who was still holding the mouse after the insults flew. Because she who still has control of the mouse is the one who gets to talk.
At least that's what her computer manual says.
I still can't get FAM (Formerly Amish Mom) to understand her MSN account, nor can I get her to actually get any e-mail out of it because her computer is hooked up to a stone tablet and a chisel - also known as dial up net service...
Yet she called me to say "Oh, hey. I found _____ childhood friend of yours on the internet! Want to know what he/she is up to? I sent him/her a letter.
It should be noted that she didn't send an e-mail. She sent an honest to goodness, antique, ink pen to paper, snail mail.
And I checked up on her research (without telling her, of course) and she had indeed found the person she was looking for. And their e-mail address was right there in really large, let me help you contact me type type. *sigh*
And since I'm well on my way to being disowned by my FAM, I might as well add nearly divorced to the list as well.
Hopefully what appears below are two links to some, um.....video that I took of Mr. Zoom.
When he didn't know I had figured out that my camera had video, and how to use it. He's much more carful about that now. In this first one, the audio outruns the video for some reason...so it ends up being totally out of sinc. But you still get the idea:
Mr. Zoom:
Supply Brow Monster - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
And just in case I haven't insured my sleeping arrangement of sofa out in the cold:
Mr. Zoom:
Slap Dat Ass - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Vertigo. Isn't That a U2 Song?
Vertigo. As of Thursday, December 8, 2005, I beleived it to be 1. a recent U2 Song; 2. an old lady condition that didn't really mean anything - because it had something to do with an Alfred Hitchcock film; and 3. Another name for fear of heights.
Well, what can I say. I don't always track down the proper meaning of things. My head just creates a definition and most times I run with it.
Turns out that Vertigo, or Positional Vertigo, or Labrythitis is actually the sensation that one has imbibed ALL the booze, and the spinning of the Earth at 60 rpsecond isn't going to stop anytime soon, if ever. Oh, and it makes you want to barf the entire time.
Friday after lunch, I made Mr. Zoom take me home. I felt like the top of my cranium was going to spin off and I would have welcomed it. I would bet that if you looked me in the eyes, you would have seen Tom and Jerry type pupils going in little circles.
By Saturday nothing had improved. In fact, the more I laid down to try and sleep it off, the more spinning the world would do. I finally agreed to go to the emergency walk in. After a 4 hour wait, the dr. gave me a prescription for a motion sickness pill and sent me on my way. "Oh, and the pill will make you drowsy." More like out cold, actually. The receipt said diagnosis: Labrythitis. Wasn't that a David Bowie movie in the 80s?
I've never been so scared in all of my life. I realize that sounds all kinds of mello-dramatic in the face of what it actually turned out to be. BUT, prior to the hangover disease (that's exactly what it felt like to me, so that's what I call it) I had never known anyone to have this condition, nor had I ever bothered to learn about it as discussed above. When it first started and wouldn't let up, I was sure I'd be out of work for a very long time and that I was in for all kinds of neurological testing. Isn't bizarre vision a brain tumor thing?
And back in my 20s, I had been through years of brain chemical testing and really REALLY didn't know if I could do it again. Or if they did it again, if they could find another answer like they did the first time around.
When I would start to overreact by letting the what ifs fly, Mr. Zoom would give me a shut up pill and within an hour I'd be snoring and drooling on myself just like any other day. Guaranteed 4.5 hours of peace in each tablet. For both of us.
I got the final word and a lot of helpful information from my Gatekeeper Physician (I have an HMO) today. It is just Positional Vertigo. He even gave Mr. Zoom and I a little piece of paper with a manuever on it that should "make the sand in my ear go away so that the gyroscopes in there can work properly again." I was incredibly annoyed that the walk in physician didn't mention that. But whatever. It is what it is.
Gatekeeper Physician did the move and noted my shimmy eyes. He did it again and all seemed to fall into repair.
I now feel like a huge ninny for all the worring I did. And all of the grr I flung at the t.v. Every healthy individual I saw in a commercial got a telepathic message from me: "You like that steady eyesight? Better not take it for granted. You might end up like me someday."
And actually, the lesson isn't lost on me. I'm still a little woozy, but at least I don't feel as if I'm on beezlebub's merry-go-round...and I won't have to go through this Christmas saying "Happy Holidays!" and then running to the loo to call the seals. Because running while dizzy makes me miss the doorway unless I line up on it like a bowler with a mean hook in her throw.
I don't know if it's Thanksgiving late or Christmas early, but either way I'll take it and appreciate it.
Well, what can I say. I don't always track down the proper meaning of things. My head just creates a definition and most times I run with it.
Turns out that Vertigo, or Positional Vertigo, or Labrythitis is actually the sensation that one has imbibed ALL the booze, and the spinning of the Earth at 60 rpsecond isn't going to stop anytime soon, if ever. Oh, and it makes you want to barf the entire time.
Friday after lunch, I made Mr. Zoom take me home. I felt like the top of my cranium was going to spin off and I would have welcomed it. I would bet that if you looked me in the eyes, you would have seen Tom and Jerry type pupils going in little circles.
By Saturday nothing had improved. In fact, the more I laid down to try and sleep it off, the more spinning the world would do. I finally agreed to go to the emergency walk in. After a 4 hour wait, the dr. gave me a prescription for a motion sickness pill and sent me on my way. "Oh, and the pill will make you drowsy." More like out cold, actually. The receipt said diagnosis: Labrythitis. Wasn't that a David Bowie movie in the 80s?
I've never been so scared in all of my life. I realize that sounds all kinds of mello-dramatic in the face of what it actually turned out to be. BUT, prior to the hangover disease (that's exactly what it felt like to me, so that's what I call it) I had never known anyone to have this condition, nor had I ever bothered to learn about it as discussed above. When it first started and wouldn't let up, I was sure I'd be out of work for a very long time and that I was in for all kinds of neurological testing. Isn't bizarre vision a brain tumor thing?
And back in my 20s, I had been through years of brain chemical testing and really REALLY didn't know if I could do it again. Or if they did it again, if they could find another answer like they did the first time around.
When I would start to overreact by letting the what ifs fly, Mr. Zoom would give me a shut up pill and within an hour I'd be snoring and drooling on myself just like any other day. Guaranteed 4.5 hours of peace in each tablet. For both of us.
I got the final word and a lot of helpful information from my Gatekeeper Physician (I have an HMO) today. It is just Positional Vertigo. He even gave Mr. Zoom and I a little piece of paper with a manuever on it that should "make the sand in my ear go away so that the gyroscopes in there can work properly again." I was incredibly annoyed that the walk in physician didn't mention that. But whatever. It is what it is.
Gatekeeper Physician did the move and noted my shimmy eyes. He did it again and all seemed to fall into repair.
I now feel like a huge ninny for all the worring I did. And all of the grr I flung at the t.v. Every healthy individual I saw in a commercial got a telepathic message from me: "You like that steady eyesight? Better not take it for granted. You might end up like me someday."
And actually, the lesson isn't lost on me. I'm still a little woozy, but at least I don't feel as if I'm on beezlebub's merry-go-round...and I won't have to go through this Christmas saying "Happy Holidays!" and then running to the loo to call the seals. Because running while dizzy makes me miss the doorway unless I line up on it like a bowler with a mean hook in her throw.
I don't know if it's Thanksgiving late or Christmas early, but either way I'll take it and appreciate it.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Have You Met My Wife? Chevy Chase?
I swear, Mr. Zoom has said that.
I am hopelessly and painfully clumsy. I think the first sign of clutzocity to come was when I was 6, and walking home from school. I don't remember the incident itself, just the part where the doctor was stitching me up.
Apparently I went to take a step off of a curb, and landed with my chin in full contact of said curb - legs out behind me in the street.
How I managed to take a step and 180 around AND fall with my chin on the cement? I don't know. The woman who was walking me home from school that day couldn't even tell my mom how I had managed this. After gathering me up from the ground, I guess she saw the blood and knew it was not good.
All that time, I had no idea anything was amiss. Other than the fact that I had fallen down and my Mom was here "early". But it wasn't until I was horizontal on a steel table while the doctor poured antiseptic into my cut that I started to scream.
The rest of my life has been peppered with incidents of doh. There weren't any more stitches, but probably should have been:
The time I was playing with neighbor kids and managed to cut my palm with a rusty nail head that was in a fence I apparently tried to bounce off of. Right on my life line. Good thing I'm not into palm readings.
The time I was riding a motor scooter with a friend and we took a corner too tightly. I left ALL of the skin on the right side of my body there on the road. I also picked up some nice bits o' asphalt that Mom pulled out of my arms.
The time I was roller skating and fell down, chipping one of my huge front teeth. This wasn't much of a surprise, as I had the biggest overbite known to exist in such a tiny head. Ever.
Those were the big ones.
Since then, I've graduated to less mess of the bodily fluid kind and more mess of the items in my path of destruction kind.
And the bruising. I'm a leopard! Mr. Zoom is always asking me "where...what...how did you do THAT?"
My response is usually something like "Might have been when I walked into the wall and then rebounded into the corner of my desk two days ago?"
When we go into frou frou stores, or even regular people stores, I have to walk with my hands behind my back. I'm convinced my hands have a nefarious mind all their own and will fly out to knock over expensive items. As if the entire store were set up in a hidden domino style, just waiting for my hands to arrive and break free of my concentration.
And whoever thought all that convenient hyperlinking all over my computer desktop (either in e-mails, documents I'm working on or whatever else is clickable) at work was a good idea needs to be forced to administer computer support when I've accidentally clicked my way to either a frozen computer screen, or e-mails to the whole office that have nothing to do with anything.
OOOO! Or when Theresa or Rev. Brandy post some wonderful post, which links back to an older post. I suddenly forget where I am and leave a comment on the old post. Which is more appropriate for the recent post. And then I say:
"Of course I did that. Of course I did. It's me."
Other Chevy Chase Moments:
"Of course I hooked my scarf on the gate and nearly strangled myself. How could I possibly think wearing a scarf would be safe?"
"Of course I just came to a stop and my purse flew out of the passenger seat and landed contents askew all over the floor. Of course I can't reach it." Followed by "Of course my cell phone magically fell into this compartment in the truck door and I couldn't find it. There's only a 1 in 1gillion chance of it perfectly flying into that space, I had to know it was going to happen."
"Of course I just hung up on that caller while trying to answer my cell phone. I've only had this cell phone for 3 years, it's perfectly understandable that I still can't keep from hanging up on the people who call me."
"Of course I spilled coffee on my sweater not 30 seconds after buying it. There's already a coffee stain right about even with the girls where the coffee landed the last time I wore this."
I am human bumper cars. Enabled by Mr. Zoom, who unconditionally loves me, and occasionally laughs at me. Which keeps me from taking it all too seriously - because it reminds me to laugh at myself.
I am hopelessly and painfully clumsy. I think the first sign of clutzocity to come was when I was 6, and walking home from school. I don't remember the incident itself, just the part where the doctor was stitching me up.
Apparently I went to take a step off of a curb, and landed with my chin in full contact of said curb - legs out behind me in the street.
How I managed to take a step and 180 around AND fall with my chin on the cement? I don't know. The woman who was walking me home from school that day couldn't even tell my mom how I had managed this. After gathering me up from the ground, I guess she saw the blood and knew it was not good.
All that time, I had no idea anything was amiss. Other than the fact that I had fallen down and my Mom was here "early". But it wasn't until I was horizontal on a steel table while the doctor poured antiseptic into my cut that I started to scream.
The rest of my life has been peppered with incidents of doh. There weren't any more stitches, but probably should have been:
The time I was playing with neighbor kids and managed to cut my palm with a rusty nail head that was in a fence I apparently tried to bounce off of. Right on my life line. Good thing I'm not into palm readings.
The time I was riding a motor scooter with a friend and we took a corner too tightly. I left ALL of the skin on the right side of my body there on the road. I also picked up some nice bits o' asphalt that Mom pulled out of my arms.
The time I was roller skating and fell down, chipping one of my huge front teeth. This wasn't much of a surprise, as I had the biggest overbite known to exist in such a tiny head. Ever.
Those were the big ones.
Since then, I've graduated to less mess of the bodily fluid kind and more mess of the items in my path of destruction kind.
And the bruising. I'm a leopard! Mr. Zoom is always asking me "where...what...how did you do THAT?"
My response is usually something like "Might have been when I walked into the wall and then rebounded into the corner of my desk two days ago?"
When we go into frou frou stores, or even regular people stores, I have to walk with my hands behind my back. I'm convinced my hands have a nefarious mind all their own and will fly out to knock over expensive items. As if the entire store were set up in a hidden domino style, just waiting for my hands to arrive and break free of my concentration.
And whoever thought all that convenient hyperlinking all over my computer desktop (either in e-mails, documents I'm working on or whatever else is clickable) at work was a good idea needs to be forced to administer computer support when I've accidentally clicked my way to either a frozen computer screen, or e-mails to the whole office that have nothing to do with anything.
OOOO! Or when Theresa or Rev. Brandy post some wonderful post, which links back to an older post. I suddenly forget where I am and leave a comment on the old post. Which is more appropriate for the recent post. And then I say:
"Of course I did that. Of course I did. It's me."
Other Chevy Chase Moments:
"Of course I hooked my scarf on the gate and nearly strangled myself. How could I possibly think wearing a scarf would be safe?"
"Of course I just came to a stop and my purse flew out of the passenger seat and landed contents askew all over the floor. Of course I can't reach it." Followed by "Of course my cell phone magically fell into this compartment in the truck door and I couldn't find it. There's only a 1 in 1gillion chance of it perfectly flying into that space, I had to know it was going to happen."
"Of course I just hung up on that caller while trying to answer my cell phone. I've only had this cell phone for 3 years, it's perfectly understandable that I still can't keep from hanging up on the people who call me."
"Of course I spilled coffee on my sweater not 30 seconds after buying it. There's already a coffee stain right about even with the girls where the coffee landed the last time I wore this."
I am human bumper cars. Enabled by Mr. Zoom, who unconditionally loves me, and occasionally laughs at me. Which keeps me from taking it all too seriously - because it reminds me to laugh at myself.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Weekend: History Channeling at The Christmas Party / Fear Factor Dinner With Friends
I am forever fascinated with religion. Having no association with any specific religion of my own, I love learning about all of them.
Last week sometime I watched a show on the History Channel about the *woo woo* forbidden or rejected books of the Bible.
Saturday, Mr. Zoom and I accompanied two of our friends to their office Christmas party. And I should probably call it a Holiday Party, but the thing is, I just don't care what it's called. Christmas it is. Hold on, the connection is coming...
Towards the end of the evening, the dessert was being served. Mr. Zoom, the knower of knowing things immediately identified the goo as Cherries Jubilee.
This caused me to say to him with authority: "JUBILEES! The discarded book of the Bible!!" He gave me the look. I said "I shlaw it on de History Channell! Jubilees ish one ov thosh books they illishimated from sha final version of sha Bible!" He understands my drunk dialect. I'm so lucky!
He gave me the "ooooooh, all clear" nod and said "That was going to be so much more impressive when I thought you made it up and were just talking out of your butt."
Sunday we were at another friend's home for a little Christmas open house type thing. We were partaking of stew and sandwiches, and all of the cookies and brownies I could get my hands on.
During the stew part of the meal, one of our other friends was commenting on how it needed some spice. Mr. Zoom and he were talking back and forth when the following words slapped me upside the head: "Rabbit Stew".
That's when I realized that what I thought had been chicken, was actually rabbit stew. Rabbit = Bunny. Bunny stew.
I had only gotten a few spoonfuls in at this point. I then had an inner fight with myself:
"Just eat it. You were eating it 3 seconds ago and it was fine when you thought it was chicken. Come on. Nothing has changed. What is wrong with you? Other people around you are eating it and they are fine. Don't be an ungrateful guest. EAT IT. You eat beef. You eat chicken. You eat shrimp and sometimes weird sushi rolls. Why is this such an issue for you?"
But I couldn't. I tried, but it wasn't going to happen. Mr. Zoom noticed I couldn't get it down and without even having to ask, knew it was the cooked bunny revelation that had quashed my appetite.
The mind is a serious enemy when you least expect it. Especially when most of the time it appears you've lost it.
Last week sometime I watched a show on the History Channel about the *woo woo* forbidden or rejected books of the Bible.
Saturday, Mr. Zoom and I accompanied two of our friends to their office Christmas party. And I should probably call it a Holiday Party, but the thing is, I just don't care what it's called. Christmas it is. Hold on, the connection is coming...
Towards the end of the evening, the dessert was being served. Mr. Zoom, the knower of knowing things immediately identified the goo as Cherries Jubilee.
This caused me to say to him with authority: "JUBILEES! The discarded book of the Bible!!" He gave me the look. I said "I shlaw it on de History Channell! Jubilees ish one ov thosh books they illishimated from sha final version of sha Bible!" He understands my drunk dialect. I'm so lucky!
He gave me the "ooooooh, all clear" nod and said "That was going to be so much more impressive when I thought you made it up and were just talking out of your butt."
Sunday we were at another friend's home for a little Christmas open house type thing. We were partaking of stew and sandwiches, and all of the cookies and brownies I could get my hands on.
During the stew part of the meal, one of our other friends was commenting on how it needed some spice. Mr. Zoom and he were talking back and forth when the following words slapped me upside the head: "Rabbit Stew".
That's when I realized that what I thought had been chicken, was actually rabbit stew. Rabbit = Bunny. Bunny stew.
I had only gotten a few spoonfuls in at this point. I then had an inner fight with myself:
"Just eat it. You were eating it 3 seconds ago and it was fine when you thought it was chicken. Come on. Nothing has changed. What is wrong with you? Other people around you are eating it and they are fine. Don't be an ungrateful guest. EAT IT. You eat beef. You eat chicken. You eat shrimp and sometimes weird sushi rolls. Why is this such an issue for you?"
But I couldn't. I tried, but it wasn't going to happen. Mr. Zoom noticed I couldn't get it down and without even having to ask, knew it was the cooked bunny revelation that had quashed my appetite.
The mind is a serious enemy when you least expect it. Especially when most of the time it appears you've lost it.
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