Thursday morning I had an appointment with the eye doctor and I never mind going to the eye doctor. He's a delightfully witty man who gives excellent eye care. Plus, I love his office, specifically where it is located. Let's just say that his office is in close proximity to a Target (I adore Target) and that factoid weighed into my decision to make this guy my vision specialist.
I'm no dummy.
As luck would have it (or careful planning on my part) I had about an hour to kill before my eye appointment this morning and I decided that it was best spent pursuing the aisles at Target. As per my norm, I took a small shortcut through a quasi-industrial section of town.
That's not terribly exciting, but here's where the plot thickens: there was a guy in a warehouse parking lot hosting a garage sale of sorts. He had a couple of baby cribs, some nice looking coffee tables, and a totally boss looking toddler drum set. Needing exactly none of those items, I kept on driving … until I spotted a white cabinet that is precisely the size and shape that I want to put in the new bathroom downstairs.
I immediately stood on the brake pedal and jerked the steering wheel to the left to make a completely illegal u-turn into the warehouse parking lot. Mrs. Worthington, my Driver's Ed teacher, would not have been pleased. And by not pleased, I mean she'd have been completely panicked and been blowing her shiny silver whistle for me to stop, all the while jamming on her special Driver's Ed teacher passenger side brake with her white Reebok high tops.
(Some people have no sense of adventure.)
Sure, I felt bad about the loud squealing tires noise and slight burning rubber smell interrupting an otherwise peaceful morning, but I had to have that cabinet.
After parking, I raced over to the cabinet and yelled 'HOW MUCH?' at the slightly startled guy selling his household goods in the parking lot of a light industrial section of my town.
'Uh … five bucks?'
'SOLD!'
For five bucks, I got a fabulous cabinet thing to put in the basement bathroom. Sure it was covered with cobwebs and pill-bug carcasses, but I knew it would be lovely once I'd cleaned it off.
Want to know the best part? The whole transaction took less than three minutes, which still left me with fifty-seven minutes to peruse the aisles at Target. Score!
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Friday, September 28, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
This Fox Tail Still Smells Like Animal Butt
I live in Indiana. It's a state rich in history ... mainly the history of basketball, corn, or John Mellancamp, but sometimes we Hoosiers come up with something really good. It occurs one weekend a year in either September or October and this history lesson is called The Feast of the Hunter's Moon.
Despite having been to this Feast a number of times over the years (it's a mandatory field trip for all 4th graders within a two hour drive time), I have little to no idea what it is actually about. I know that there is an old French fort called Fort Ouiatenon, pronounced Wee-aught-non for you non Hoosier-French speakers.
The Feast recreates the mid-1700s when the French and Native American tribes from this area were straight up homies. They did some chillin' and some fur tradin' at the Fort, which was a fur trading post/defense post against the British (didn't work, the Brits came in and mucked up the relationship between the Eurpoeans and the Native Americans for the next several years).
I don't know if all the cannon firing, drum marching, and sausage-on-a-stick eating took place during the original Fall gatherings or not, but that's what happens at the Feast now.
The mid-1700s do not represent my favorite time in history. I don't know if it's the lack of good personal hygiene and supportive undergarments or all the time spent rope making, but this era in time doesn't make my skirt fly up. In short, I skip the Feast at least nine years of every decade.
My husband and my youngest daughter go to the Feast together every year. They totally dig it and I think that's awesome. Their father/daughter time gives me a chance to be with my oldest girl doing what we do best: shopping at the mall.
I was informed by my youngest that there is plenty of shopping at the Feast. She bought a little purse made of real fur (fingers crossed it's rabbit hair and not something else, like opossum). I don't know if my husband just wasn't paying attention to what my child was buying at the fur trading post or what, but she also came home with this beauty:
And yes. The fox tail key chain is hanging from a telescoping metal pointer because I am not touching that thing. Tis way grody.
My youngest, the purchaser of this fox tail, had this to say about her purchase: This fox tail still smells like animal butt.
I'm sure it a-ha moments like this that make all the hours and hours of tireless effort contributed by Feast organizers every year it worth it.
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Despite having been to this Feast a number of times over the years (it's a mandatory field trip for all 4th graders within a two hour drive time), I have little to no idea what it is actually about. I know that there is an old French fort called Fort Ouiatenon, pronounced Wee-aught-non for you non Hoosier-French speakers.
 |
| Behold. Fort Ouiatenon |
The Feast recreates the mid-1700s when the French and Native American tribes from this area were straight up homies. They did some chillin' and some fur tradin' at the Fort, which was a fur trading post/defense post against the British (didn't work, the Brits came in and mucked up the relationship between the Eurpoeans and the Native Americans for the next several years).
I don't know if all the cannon firing, drum marching, and sausage-on-a-stick eating took place during the original Fall gatherings or not, but that's what happens at the Feast now.
The mid-1700s do not represent my favorite time in history. I don't know if it's the lack of good personal hygiene and supportive undergarments or all the time spent rope making, but this era in time doesn't make my skirt fly up. In short, I skip the Feast at least nine years of every decade.
My husband and my youngest daughter go to the Feast together every year. They totally dig it and I think that's awesome. Their father/daughter time gives me a chance to be with my oldest girl doing what we do best: shopping at the mall.
I was informed by my youngest that there is plenty of shopping at the Feast. She bought a little purse made of real fur (fingers crossed it's rabbit hair and not something else, like opossum). I don't know if my husband just wasn't paying attention to what my child was buying at the fur trading post or what, but she also came home with this beauty:
 |
| That's right. It's a fox tail key chain. Just like folks in the 1700s used to have. |
And yes. The fox tail key chain is hanging from a telescoping metal pointer because I am not touching that thing. Tis way grody.
My youngest, the purchaser of this fox tail, had this to say about her purchase: This fox tail still smells like animal butt.
I'm sure it a-ha moments like this that make all the hours and hours of tireless effort contributed by Feast organizers every year it worth it.
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Monday, September 24, 2012
My Thoughts On Zombieland
This past weekend I had some free time and I decided to fill that free time doing something productive. Something that would benefit all of humanity for generations to come.
No. Not really. I went to the video store in search of a movie on my Must See list.
Here's a fun nugget for you: Of the eight movies still on my list, the video store doesn't own three. How can a video rental store not own Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or West Side Story? Seriously. Isn't it some kind of law that rental stores have to own these movies? It's anarchy, people.
The store owned two other movies on my list, but they were rented out. One movie I had at home because I borrowed it from a friend. I tried watching it once, but couldn't make it through the first thirty minutes. I didn't feel up to tackling that one again so my list got whittled down to Pulp Fiction and Zombieland, two of the least anticipated movies on my Must See list.
Why was Zombieland one of the least anticipated movies on my list? Um … hello? It's about zombies and I don't like zombies. They eat people's guts. Ew. I don't want to see people get eaten. I barely like to see people eat steaks and chickens and stuff. If it weren't for my love of bacon, I could probably be a vegetarian, so the idea of watching zombies eat intestines and femurs for ninety-six minutes isn't really my idea of a good time.
Plus zombies smack their lips and chew with their mouths open. That totally grosses me out. I'm a stickler for good table manners and zombies do not have good table manners.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself really liking this movie. I found parts of it absolutely hilarious. Sure it's pretty gross, but funny. Very, very funny. And Woody Harrelson is in it. I love Woody Harrelson.
Unlike other movies on my list that I have watched primarily from the relative safety of a Snuggie thrown over my head, I managed to watch all of Zombieland. Alright, alright. I did shut my eyes about every ten minutes, not because it was scary but because of the aforementioned lip smacking and open mouth chewing.
And burping. Lots of zombie burping. Ew.
To recap: Watched Zombieland and loved it. It redefined everything I thought I knew about zombies, admittedly most of which came from Scooby Doo. It was equal parts hilarious and disgusting. Try it. You'll like it.
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No. Not really. I went to the video store in search of a movie on my Must See list.
Here's a fun nugget for you: Of the eight movies still on my list, the video store doesn't own three. How can a video rental store not own Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or West Side Story? Seriously. Isn't it some kind of law that rental stores have to own these movies? It's anarchy, people.
The store owned two other movies on my list, but they were rented out. One movie I had at home because I borrowed it from a friend. I tried watching it once, but couldn't make it through the first thirty minutes. I didn't feel up to tackling that one again so my list got whittled down to Pulp Fiction and Zombieland, two of the least anticipated movies on my Must See list.
Why was Zombieland one of the least anticipated movies on my list? Um … hello? It's about zombies and I don't like zombies. They eat people's guts. Ew. I don't want to see people get eaten. I barely like to see people eat steaks and chickens and stuff. If it weren't for my love of bacon, I could probably be a vegetarian, so the idea of watching zombies eat intestines and femurs for ninety-six minutes isn't really my idea of a good time.
Plus zombies smack their lips and chew with their mouths open. That totally grosses me out. I'm a stickler for good table manners and zombies do not have good table manners.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself really liking this movie. I found parts of it absolutely hilarious. Sure it's pretty gross, but funny. Very, very funny. And Woody Harrelson is in it. I love Woody Harrelson.
Unlike other movies on my list that I have watched primarily from the relative safety of a Snuggie thrown over my head, I managed to watch all of Zombieland. Alright, alright. I did shut my eyes about every ten minutes, not because it was scary but because of the aforementioned lip smacking and open mouth chewing.
And burping. Lots of zombie burping. Ew.
To recap: Watched Zombieland and loved it. It redefined everything I thought I knew about zombies, admittedly most of which came from Scooby Doo. It was equal parts hilarious and disgusting. Try it. You'll like it.
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Thursday, September 20, 2012
I Have A New Best Friend. He Just Doesn't Know It Yet.
Have you ever seen or heard someone and had an instant connection to them? You just knew that you'd be friends? Deep in your heart, you know that if you were to meet this person you would be besties for life.
I feel that way about exactly two people: Prince and Paula Deen. I want to elaborate on Prince today because I think you all are smart enough to figure out that my relationship with Paula Deen would exist solely on a mutual love of butter. And I adore her impossibly blue eyes and her sweet Southern accent, but I digress.
Pretty much since 1999 (the album, not the year), I've been a Prince fan. He speaks to me. Sure, Prince is quiet and that comes across as kinda creepy, but he's arty and funky. I like arty and funky in a person.
Simply put, I just love that man's brain. Can't you just picture the two of us chilling on a purple velvet couch somewhere discussing our mutual love of all things paisley? I can so see that happening.
And let's be honest, Prince and I are so similar it's ridiculous.
Want proof? The man stands around 5'2" (without his kicky high heeled boots). Guess how tall I am? That's right. I'm 5'2".
Prince wrote his first song at age seven. I was seven when he had his first Billboard hit.
We could be twins.
In the early 80s, Prince opened for the Rolling Stones. Pretty sure that sometime in the early 80s, I opened a Rolling Stones cassette tape. I'm not making this up, people. It's factual.
And it gets even better: he's from Minnesota and I've been to Minnesota once.
BAM. Twins.
Prince is known for being very funky. Are you ready for this? I have a Room O' Funk. It gives you the chills, doesn't it?
The evidence pile is staggering. Yep. I'm pretty confident that Prince and I are twins. Or at least best friends. Well, we would be besties if we were to ever meet.
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Pretty much since 1999 (the album, not the year), I've been a Prince fan. He speaks to me. Sure, Prince is quiet and that comes across as kinda creepy, but he's arty and funky. I like arty and funky in a person.
Simply put, I just love that man's brain. Can't you just picture the two of us chilling on a purple velvet couch somewhere discussing our mutual love of all things paisley? I can so see that happening.
And let's be honest, Prince and I are so similar it's ridiculous.
Want proof? The man stands around 5'2" (without his kicky high heeled boots). Guess how tall I am? That's right. I'm 5'2".
Prince wrote his first song at age seven. I was seven when he had his first Billboard hit.
We could be twins.
In the early 80s, Prince opened for the Rolling Stones. Pretty sure that sometime in the early 80s, I opened a Rolling Stones cassette tape. I'm not making this up, people. It's factual.
And it gets even better: he's from Minnesota and I've been to Minnesota once.
BAM. Twins.
Prince is known for being very funky. Are you ready for this? I have a Room O' Funk. It gives you the chills, doesn't it?
The evidence pile is staggering. Yep. I'm pretty confident that Prince and I are twins. Or at least best friends. Well, we would be besties if we were to ever meet.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
It's A Mr. Roger's Kind Of Day
On beautiful days like today, I find myself quoting one of America's greatest poets, Fred Rogers. To quote Mr. Rogers (of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood), it's a beautiful day in this neighborhood ...
… a beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
That last photo isn't my neighborhood, but I did visit it recently and that totally counts.
If you'll excuse me, I'm indoors now and I must change into my indoors sweater and shoes.
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… a beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
That last photo isn't my neighborhood, but I did visit it recently and that totally counts.
If you'll excuse me, I'm indoors now and I must change into my indoors sweater and shoes.
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Friday, September 14, 2012
Warehouse Shopping Is My Calling
Earlier this week, I needed to buy pillows and bread. The best place in my town to buy pillows is the local warehouse store. A warehouse store, the kind of place where one can buy two pillows, a fifty gallon tub of nacho cheese and a twenty pound package of raspberries all for rock bottom prices.
I love stores like this. They amuse me to no end. Forrest Gump's mama had it wrong. Life isn't a box of chocolates. Life is a warehouse store and you just never know what you are going to find.
Although there are some staple items, the variety of stuff for sale is ever changing and completely random. Last month I went to the store and it was chock full of gel pens, mixed nuts and garden hoses.
This week, the gel pens and garden hoses are gone. They were replaced by bins of fuzzy blankets, heated mattress covers, and copies of Ferris Beuller's Day Off all lined up in a tidy row.
And yes. I bought all three items.
(See 'rock bottom prices' comment above in paragraph one.)
One item I opted against purchasing was this super cute pair of jeans.
I really liked this pair of jeans. The more I looked, the more I liked. I found a pair in my size and started to put them in my cart, right on top of two fuzzy blankets and one heated mattress cover.
Just as I was placing the jeans in my cart, an image flashed in my brain.
An image of what these jeans would look like on me.
It wasn't pretty. These jeans don't belong on an almost forty year old, slightly doughy shortie from Indiana. Hons, my heinie wasn't made to be bedazzled.
For confirmation of this fact, I texted my life coach, Tata.
As per the norm, she put the blingy britches into perspective.
Maybe blingy pants aren't for me. I'm okay with that because there are literally truckloads of other stuff at the warehouse store, some of it dipped in awesome sauce, some of it not.
Big buckets of Breyer's All Natural ice cream? Dipped in awesome sauce.
Obviously.
I spent over two hours in the store collecting items that I didn't know I needed (or even existed), so I knew the checkout total was going to be ugly.
It was.
How does one go into a story to buy pillows and bread and walk out two hours and $125 later? I don't know, but I think it's a gift.
Or maybe it's more of a calling.
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I love stores like this. They amuse me to no end. Forrest Gump's mama had it wrong. Life isn't a box of chocolates. Life is a warehouse store and you just never know what you are going to find.
Although there are some staple items, the variety of stuff for sale is ever changing and completely random. Last month I went to the store and it was chock full of gel pens, mixed nuts and garden hoses.
This week, the gel pens and garden hoses are gone. They were replaced by bins of fuzzy blankets, heated mattress covers, and copies of Ferris Beuller's Day Off all lined up in a tidy row.
And yes. I bought all three items.
(See 'rock bottom prices' comment above in paragraph one.)
One item I opted against purchasing was this super cute pair of jeans.
 |
| See that snazzy pocket detail? Totally adorable |
I really liked this pair of jeans. The more I looked, the more I liked. I found a pair in my size and started to put them in my cart, right on top of two fuzzy blankets and one heated mattress cover.
Just as I was placing the jeans in my cart, an image flashed in my brain.
An image of what these jeans would look like on me.
It wasn't pretty. These jeans don't belong on an almost forty year old, slightly doughy shortie from Indiana. Hons, my heinie wasn't made to be bedazzled.
For confirmation of this fact, I texted my life coach, Tata.
As per the norm, she put the blingy britches into perspective.
 |
| Clearly, she missed her calling as a rapper. She could have been a female Eminem. Wait ... she could have been Feminem. |
Maybe blingy pants aren't for me. I'm okay with that because there are literally truckloads of other stuff at the warehouse store, some of it dipped in awesome sauce, some of it not.
Big buckets of Breyer's All Natural ice cream? Dipped in awesome sauce.
Obviously.
 |
| Big buckets of Breyer's ice cream soothes my soul. |
I spent over two hours in the store collecting items that I didn't know I needed (or even existed), so I knew the checkout total was going to be ugly.
It was.
How does one go into a story to buy pillows and bread and walk out two hours and $125 later? I don't know, but I think it's a gift.
Or maybe it's more of a calling.
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Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Disco Ain't Dead
Every once in a while, I run across a product that totally captures my interest and I become obsessed with it. I may even blog about it here (Wonder Woman mixer), here (Jonah Hill Wham!-mobile), and here (gas pedal for the Honda/Elvis guitar art).
This stuff is so perfectly and wonderfully me. All of these goodies have earned my undying love and spots on my birthday/Christmas list.
This morning I was successfully avoiding doing any actual work when I stumbled upon this little gem.
It's a disco ball helmet! Can you stand the excitement, people? I just about peed myself when I saw this and let me tell you, a disco ball helmet skyrocketed to the top of my birthday/Christmas list.
Sure, I don't own a motorcycle or a scooter (or even a bike), but I still want one. It's just so dang cool. I would look absolutely amazing driving about town in my Honda wearing a helmet like this. It would so be worth having helmet hair. And having fellow drivers question my sanity for wearing a helmet while driving a car.
I could do without the model's shiny silver jacket though. It's a little over the top (something I shy away from, obviously). It's just too much silver for my taste. However, a shiny pink satin jacket would look stunning. And I happen to know that I look pretty rad in a shiny pink satin jacket.
I think that a disco ball helmet coupled with a shiny pink satin jacket is a winning combination. This is so going on my birthday/Christmas list.
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This stuff is so perfectly and wonderfully me. All of these goodies have earned my undying love and spots on my birthday/Christmas list.
This morning I was successfully avoiding doing any actual work when I stumbled upon this little gem.
 |
| Behold. My new scooter helmet. |
It's a disco ball helmet! Can you stand the excitement, people? I just about peed myself when I saw this and let me tell you, a disco ball helmet skyrocketed to the top of my birthday/Christmas list.
Sure, I don't own a motorcycle or a scooter (or even a bike), but I still want one. It's just so dang cool. I would look absolutely amazing driving about town in my Honda wearing a helmet like this. It would so be worth having helmet hair. And having fellow drivers question my sanity for wearing a helmet while driving a car.
I could do without the model's shiny silver jacket though. It's a little over the top (something I shy away from, obviously). It's just too much silver for my taste. However, a shiny pink satin jacket would look stunning. And I happen to know that I look pretty rad in a shiny pink satin jacket.
 |
| Looks fabulous with a red turtleneck, doesn't it? |
I think that a disco ball helmet coupled with a shiny pink satin jacket is a winning combination. This is so going on my birthday/Christmas list.
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Monday, September 10, 2012
A Little Bit Chic And A Little Bit Creepy
Originally, I started this blog post as a list of my ten completely random and totally unrelated thoughts, but then (in a completely random and totally unrelated way, of course) I started thinking about Donny and Marie Osmond.
I got distracted from my random thoughts list (shocker) and did the only logical thing I could possibly do.
I googled Donny and Marie.
And somehow, I accidentally made this happen to my home computer:
Yes, that is a large Diet Coke from McDonald's. I believe in breakfast being the most important meal of the day. That large Diet Coke is a testament to that belief.
And yes, that is Donny and Marie on my desktop.
What? Like that's never happened to you.
Seriously. Haven't you ever accidentally changed your computer's background to a photo of Donny and Marie, but mostly Marie because you somehow cut off Donny's head above the chin?
No?
Really?
Oh. Well, I thought it could happen to anyone.
The more I look at my desktop, the more I kinda like it. My favorite part? The Osmonds are holding their very own Barbie dolls. My sister had those dolls as a kid.
I was so jealous.
The Barbies were based on the Donny and Marie show on TV, which I think proves two things:
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I got distracted from my random thoughts list (shocker) and did the only logical thing I could possibly do.
I googled Donny and Marie.
And somehow, I accidentally made this happen to my home computer:
Yes, that is a large Diet Coke from McDonald's. I believe in breakfast being the most important meal of the day. That large Diet Coke is a testament to that belief.
And yes, that is Donny and Marie on my desktop.
What? Like that's never happened to you.
Seriously. Haven't you ever accidentally changed your computer's background to a photo of Donny and Marie, but mostly Marie because you somehow cut off Donny's head above the chin?
No?
Really?
Oh. Well, I thought it could happen to anyone.
The more I look at my desktop, the more I kinda like it. My favorite part? The Osmonds are holding their very own Barbie dolls. My sister had those dolls as a kid.
I was so jealous.
The Barbies were based on the Donny and Marie show on TV, which I think proves two things:
- TV producers may not have known how to generate interest in a show by giving it an intriguing name ('The Donny and Marie Show'? Really?), but they sure knew how to market stuff for kids.
- The 70s were awesome. Just look at that fashion. I'd give anything to see a man strut around on TV wearing a purple satin jumpsuit with layers of feathery pink thingies on it today. Accented perfectly with a rhinestone belt, of course.
I think my sister was jealous of Marie and that's why she cut off all of Marie's hair with blunt kid scissors. The Barbie Marie, not the real Marie.
That would have been weird.
In any case, a crew cut Marie is currently living in my basement. She's pretty creepy looking and she reminds me of something that should be living in Sid's room in Toy Story, but I digress.
The Donny doll was my favorite. He wore purple socks and had a hole in his plastic hand to hold a little plastic microphone. He was amazing. What's not to love?
And his hair was painted to his head, not in loose strands like Marie's. No matter how jealous my sister got of Donny, she couldn't take it out on his perfectly coiffed locks. That painted on hair totally saved him from ever looking creepy.
Except that I'm rethinking the hole in the hand for a little plastic microphone. That's kinda creepy.
Those Osmond dolls. They're a little bit chic and a little bit creepy. Still, I think I'll leave my desktop with half of Donny and most of Marie. That photo speaks to me.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Wordless Wednesday … Aw Crap. It's Friday, Isn't It?
I missed Wordless Wednesday. Having Labor Day off on Monday made all of my days out of whack this week. Tuesday paraded around like Monday. Wednesday was dressed up like Tuesday. Then I realized that it was only forty days until my fortieth birthday and the wheels came completely off of my week.
Don't worry, I'm back on track … well, as much on track as I can be.
Even if it's a couple of days late, here is my Wordless Wednesday submission for your viewing pleasure.
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Don't worry, I'm back on track … well, as much on track as I can be.
Even if it's a couple of days late, here is my Wordless Wednesday submission for your viewing pleasure.
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Thursday, September 6, 2012
Forty Days Until I Turn Forty
My birthday is October 16. I was born into a world filled with polyester, plaid, and huge American cars.
(Is it any wonder that my tastes run towards the cheesy? I'm umbilically connected to white patent leather shoes and belts for crying out loud.)
It was 1972. My parents were probably at home watching M*A*S*H or All in the Family on TV when I decided to make my arrival. Don't worry, I wasn't born in a naugahyde recliner in front of the telly … although a certain part of me thinks that would have been extremely cool.
Know what else is kinda cool? It is exactly forty days until I turn forty. I'm not quite sure what to do with this information, yet I feel compelled to share the info with you while jotting down a list of things to accomplish by the time I turn forty.
Interesting stuff like wrestle an alligator with those Swamp People I see on History Channel all the time. Or I could become an Ice Road Trucker, also shown on the History Channel.
Perhaps "stop getting ideas from the History Channel" should go on my list.
To be honest, I probably won't actually make a list, but I would love to hear your ideas on things you think I need to do. Or see. But not eat. I don't eat weird crap. Like original flavored fro yo or watermelon.
It's too grody.
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(Is it any wonder that my tastes run towards the cheesy? I'm umbilically connected to white patent leather shoes and belts for crying out loud.)
It was 1972. My parents were probably at home watching M*A*S*H or All in the Family on TV when I decided to make my arrival. Don't worry, I wasn't born in a naugahyde recliner in front of the telly … although a certain part of me thinks that would have been extremely cool.
Know what else is kinda cool? It is exactly forty days until I turn forty. I'm not quite sure what to do with this information, yet I feel compelled to share the info with you while jotting down a list of things to accomplish by the time I turn forty.
Interesting stuff like wrestle an alligator with those Swamp People I see on History Channel all the time. Or I could become an Ice Road Trucker, also shown on the History Channel.
Perhaps "stop getting ideas from the History Channel" should go on my list.
To be honest, I probably won't actually make a list, but I would love to hear your ideas on things you think I need to do. Or see. But not eat. I don't eat weird crap. Like original flavored fro yo or watermelon.
It's too grody.
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Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Art For My Room O' Funk … And I'm So Not Going For An 80s Theme
Yesterday, in honor of the day after Labor Day, I bought art.
Wait … you didn't know that the day after Labor Day is the biggest art buying day of the year? Well that's probably because I just made it up, but I totally did buy art yesterday.
That's right. I bought art.
Art in the form of an album from 1984. I bought this piece for two reasons.
One: It was a dollar and anytime you find art that speaks to you for only a buck, you grab it off the shelf with both hands and sprint to the checkout counter to buy it.
Two: This piece of art features Eddie Murphy and anytime that you find art for a buck with Eddie Murphy on it, it's a no-brainer. You make the purchase.
Behold. One dollar Eddie Murphy art:
I was excited about my newest acquisition of art. In fact, I was so excited that I sent the following text, only to be mocked and ridiculed by the recipient. Clearly, she doesn't know art.
Which is why I'm kicking around the idea of framing and hanging up this:
Know what the subject of this photo is? I know it kinda looks like a boob, but it isn't. This is a picture of my right eyeball's guts.
Wait. Do eyeballs have 'guts'? I will have to look that up sometime.
In any case, it's kinda weird and creepy, but it proves that I have healthy peepers. More importantly, the creepy eyeball guts photo coupled with my Elvis picture prove that I am so not going for an 80s theme in my Room O' Funk.
(Please disregard this other recent purchase for my Room as it lends credibility to an 80s theme)
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Wait … you didn't know that the day after Labor Day is the biggest art buying day of the year? Well that's probably because I just made it up, but I totally did buy art yesterday.
That's right. I bought art.
Art in the form of an album from 1984. I bought this piece for two reasons.
One: It was a dollar and anytime you find art that speaks to you for only a buck, you grab it off the shelf with both hands and sprint to the checkout counter to buy it.
Two: This piece of art features Eddie Murphy and anytime that you find art for a buck with Eddie Murphy on it, it's a no-brainer. You make the purchase.
Behold. One dollar Eddie Murphy art:
I was excited about my newest acquisition of art. In fact, I was so excited that I sent the following text, only to be mocked and ridiculed by the recipient. Clearly, she doesn't know art.
For the record, I am not going for an 80s theme in my Room O' Funk. I'm going with a 'Stuff I Love Plus A Few Things That Are Weird, But I Kinda Dig Them, Too' theme.
Which is why I'm kicking around the idea of framing and hanging up this:
Know what the subject of this photo is? I know it kinda looks like a boob, but it isn't. This is a picture of my right eyeball's guts.
Wait. Do eyeballs have 'guts'? I will have to look that up sometime.
In any case, it's kinda weird and creepy, but it proves that I have healthy peepers. More importantly, the creepy eyeball guts photo coupled with my Elvis picture prove that I am so not going for an 80s theme in my Room O' Funk.
(Please disregard this other recent purchase for my Room as it lends credibility to an 80s theme)
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Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Ever Gotten Your Hand Stuck In The Razor Case At CVS?
Ever get your hand caught in the razor case at your local CVS pharmacy?
No?
Never?
Well. You're just not livin'.
In order to keep my journalistic integrity intact, I need to disclose that it was more than just my hand that got stuck in the razor display case at CVS. It was my hand and halfway up my arm that was stuck in the razor case.
Naturally, it wasn't my fault. It is the fault of those razor locker thingies at CVS. They are totally defective and completely useless. I pushed the button and the machine did not dispense my razor blades.
Phooey.
I pushed the button again.
Nothing.
I pushed a third time, with a little more force so the machine would know that I mean business.
Nada.
I had to take matters into my own hands. I reached up inside the machine to grab the blades and got my hand stuck. Through a series of fairly complex moves, I managed to get my hand and half of my arm stuck in the case.
Jeez Louise.
Seriously, who locks up disposable razor blades anyway? Afraid the meth heads will go bat crap crazy and cut someone with a five pack of Schick Hydro replacement blades if they don't get their Sudafed or Coricidin HB?
Hmm. Maybe that isn't so far fetched.
The worst part of getting my hand stuck in the razor jail was that I somehow managed to trigger the alarm to summon store personnel. Imagine hearing a quiet beep followed by 'Customer needs assistance in aisle 8 at the razor display case. Repeat: Customer needs assistance in aisle 8 at the razor display case.' over the loudspeaker.
As if it weren't embarrassing enough to be stuck in a machine, the CVS SWAT team had now been deployed.
And her name was Glenda. She was at least a thousand years old.
Oy vey.
Glenda was sympathetic to my plight because she, too, had gotten her hand stuck in the razor case on her first day on the job. According to Glenda, filling the razor case has it's hazards and getting an appendage stuck is one of them.
On a certain level, as Glenda worked the key and the plastic guard thingie simultaneously, we became friends. We chatted and exchanged pleasantries. She liked my purple purse. I liked her big brooch.
Few things class up a CVS smock like a big brooch.
After at least seven minutes, Glenda finally sprung my arm from razor jail. Then she offered me an ice pack, a couple of band aids, and more sympathy. After all, getting a hand stuck in that case could happen to anyone. Even her.
As she was walking away, Glenda looked over her shoulder and gave me these parting words: Keep ice on that arm. And it could happen to anyone, but you take the cake. Most people only get their hand stuck and they stop messing with the case. You got most of your arm in there, too. Honey, that's real commitment, but next time? Just push the button and the razor blades will drop right out the bottom of the display case like a vending machine drops a Snickers.
Thanks, Glenda.
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No?
Never?
Well. You're just not livin'.
In order to keep my journalistic integrity intact, I need to disclose that it was more than just my hand that got stuck in the razor display case at CVS. It was my hand and halfway up my arm that was stuck in the razor case.
Naturally, it wasn't my fault. It is the fault of those razor locker thingies at CVS. They are totally defective and completely useless. I pushed the button and the machine did not dispense my razor blades.
Phooey.
I pushed the button again.
Nothing.
I pushed a third time, with a little more force so the machine would know that I mean business.
Nada.
I had to take matters into my own hands. I reached up inside the machine to grab the blades and got my hand stuck. Through a series of fairly complex moves, I managed to get my hand and half of my arm stuck in the case.
Jeez Louise.
Seriously, who locks up disposable razor blades anyway? Afraid the meth heads will go bat crap crazy and cut someone with a five pack of Schick Hydro replacement blades if they don't get their Sudafed or Coricidin HB?
Hmm. Maybe that isn't so far fetched.
The worst part of getting my hand stuck in the razor jail was that I somehow managed to trigger the alarm to summon store personnel. Imagine hearing a quiet beep followed by 'Customer needs assistance in aisle 8 at the razor display case. Repeat: Customer needs assistance in aisle 8 at the razor display case.' over the loudspeaker.
As if it weren't embarrassing enough to be stuck in a machine, the CVS SWAT team had now been deployed.
And her name was Glenda. She was at least a thousand years old.
Oy vey.
Glenda was sympathetic to my plight because she, too, had gotten her hand stuck in the razor case on her first day on the job. According to Glenda, filling the razor case has it's hazards and getting an appendage stuck is one of them.
On a certain level, as Glenda worked the key and the plastic guard thingie simultaneously, we became friends. We chatted and exchanged pleasantries. She liked my purple purse. I liked her big brooch.
Few things class up a CVS smock like a big brooch.
After at least seven minutes, Glenda finally sprung my arm from razor jail. Then she offered me an ice pack, a couple of band aids, and more sympathy. After all, getting a hand stuck in that case could happen to anyone. Even her.
As she was walking away, Glenda looked over her shoulder and gave me these parting words: Keep ice on that arm. And it could happen to anyone, but you take the cake. Most people only get their hand stuck and they stop messing with the case. You got most of your arm in there, too. Honey, that's real commitment, but next time? Just push the button and the razor blades will drop right out the bottom of the display case like a vending machine drops a Snickers.
Thanks, Glenda.
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