Earlier today, I came across the following piece of paper, tucked amongst a pile of books and magazines on the family room coffee table:
You're welcome.
Showing posts with label burning question. Show all posts
Showing posts with label burning question. Show all posts
Monday, November 8, 2010
A little spy FYI
You're welcome.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
My haunted apartment
I moved into my first apartment back when I was in college. It was the summer after my sophomore year, and a really good friend of mine and I decided we'd had enough of the dorms and found an apartment together near campus for the following year. It was the first apartment for both of us, and I will admit I felt quite grown-up, signing a lease and paying rent and all. (I was all of 19 at the time.) We'd looked at several apartments, but with our budgetary constraints, most of the nice ones were well out of our reach. We settled on a two bedroom, one bath on the outskirts of what was considered the "University" neighborhood - more grad students than undergrads were found living that far away. The neighborhood was, how shall I put it? Bohemian. Artsy. Sketchy. The building was right off a street that was known for its shops, bars and theaters - all of the decidedly alternative variety. In short, had my parents driven up from Jersey to check out our proposed abode before we signed the lease, I don't think I would've signed the lease. I probably would've found myself living in a dorm for another year.
That's not to say that the apartment was a total dive, mind you. At least, I've seen worse. It was on the second floor of a three story building - an actual apartment building, not a converted house, as so many of the student rentals were in that town. The apartment's best feature was its HUGE living room with large windows and an interesting (albeit dingy with age) black-and-white tiled floor. We envisioned turning the apartment into a 20s Art Deco style showplace, though that didn't get any farther than buying some black and white sheets with which to cover the hideous couches and black and white plates and mugs for the kitchen.
Annnnnyhow, it was not a bad place, despite the .........colorful neighborhood, and we happily moved in and went about our lives. Thanks to Google Maps and my ridiculously good longterm memory, I can show you a picture of the building:
Now, this was an older building (as evidenced by the picture above). Having grown up in a very old farmhouse (as in: 1740s vintage), I was used to the quirks an old building can have. You know, the occasional creak or squeak or dripping faucet... None of that sort of thing fazed me in the least. After a few years of living with roommates, I was used to those sorts of quirks, as well - a light left on here, a door left ajar there, things taken out and not put back exactly where they had been before. No big whoop. So, a few weeks into the semester, my roommate and I attended a party at a home occupied by a bunch of grad students (friends of her boyfriend's) that was in the same neighborhood. In the course of chatting with some of these people, it came up that we lived just up the road. Someone asked us where, specifically, and when we told him, he said to us "Oh, the haunted building on the corner?"
Haunted building? Did he just say haunted building?
Yep, that's what he said. We tried to inquire further, but the noise level and his alcohol level made getting solid details mostly impossible. He and the group of people we were standing with all nodded vigorously in agreement that our building was most definitely said to be haunted, that much was clear. My roommate went off in search of her boyfriend at that point, and it wasn't until later when he was walking us home that I realized how upset she was over the news. I shrugged it off for the most part, chalking it up to a local urban legend at best.
Except all of a sudden, those creaks and squeaks and things that went bump in the night seemed a bit more.....ominous. The faucet that would start running in the bathroom or kitchen sinks wasn't as easily dismissed as "Oh, she must've left the water running." Ditto for the lights that we could've sworn we turned off at night before retiring to our respective bedrooms and then find on the next day. Neither of us were prone to sleepwalking, much less sleep-dishwashing or sleep-toothbrushing, so finding the tap running or a light on in the morning began becoming more and more disconcerting.
Then, it happened. I was home at the apartment alone one evening, my roommate having gone over to her boyfriend's place for dinner. Around 10pm, she called me to say that she was staying over there, so I could put the chain on the door, which I went and did as soon as I got off the phone. I decided to go to bed shortly thereafter, checking the lock and chain on the door, making sure all lights and taps and everything were off, and closing my bedroom door behind me.
Now, I am a sound sleeper. One might say I sleep like the dead, even. But that night, something woke me up around 3 am. I sat up in bed, trying to figure out what it had been. (Our upstairs neighbors favored loud, heavy metal music and seemed to have footwear solely composed of cement blocks.) As I came fully awake, I realized I could hear noise coming from the living room. I got up, turned on my bedroom light, opened the door and found the stereo was on. The stereo that I had not been listening to before going to bed - I'd had the TV on - was on and set to the radio (I'd been listening to a cassette earlier in the day, so the knob had not been set to "tuner" when I'd shut it off hours before.)
I chose not to think about how and why it was on and instead rushed across the room and shut it off, then ran back into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, and got back in bed. Eventually, I fell asleep again. When I next woke up, it was a little after 7 in the morning. I got up, opened my door and............. the radio was on again. On and turned to a station that played jazz way down at the other end of the dial, far from any of the rock stations my roommate and I preferred. Also, the chairs that had been pushed in under the dining room table against the opposite wall were pulled out, away from the table, and set together a few feet into the living room, facing the windows. As though someone had wanted to sit and admire the view while listening to some jazz.
In the light of day, I didn't feel nearly as freaked out, so I bravely marched across the room, switched the radio back to our preferred station and then shut it off and moved the chairs back to where they belonged. I checked once again - all the windows were shut and locked (and besides, we were on a second floor apartment with no fire escapes or other easy means of reaching them), and the door was locked with the chain still on. At first I was convinced my roommate had come home, somehow gotten in to the apartment despite the chain and had been messing with me. This wasn't at all her style, but still. Just to be on the safe side, I called her up over at her boyfriend's apartment. Nope, she hadn't been home - in fact, I woke them up by calling. I explained to her what I'd discovered overnight and that morning, thoroughly freaking her out in the process. She never spent another night in our apartment the rest of the lease without her boyfriend sleeping over, and more nights than not she wound up spending at his place or going home to her parents' house, as they lived nearby. I, on the other hand, continued to live in the apartment with whatever (whomever?) else had been there before our lease. I'd even occasionally chastise them aloud for leaving a light on or the tap running, since the utility bills were only being split two ways. Other than trying to avoid the laundry facilities in the basement unless it was daylight (the basement was spooky in and of itself, haunted or otherwise), I had no major issues with our building's other tenants, human or ......? Throughout the remainder of the lease, lights would be turned on - usually in the bathroom or kitchen, and taps would be turned on in the sinks and occasionally the tub. Every now and again, a drawer or cabinet in the kitchen would be open. Things didn't always turn up where we thought we'd left them. A few times, small things went missing - loose change, pens, that sort of thing.
Did we have ghosts sharing the apartment with us? I couldn't say for sure. I will say that whatever dwelled there (beyond the death metal Neanderthals upstairs) was fairly benign. Nothing malicious or harmful ever transpired in the apartment, beyond the slightly higher utility bills. I never did find out the story behind the building's supposed haunting. I'm still curious, though... So, what about you? Do you believe in ghosts and hauntings? Have you ever shared a home with a poltergeist? Can you come up with a more rational explanation for the goings-on in our apartment that year?
And on that note, Happy Halloween to you and yours from me and mine! I'll leave you with our jack o'lantern for this year, carved by Hubby and Kiddo (I do NOT do pumpkin guts) earlier this afternoon:
That's not to say that the apartment was a total dive, mind you. At least, I've seen worse. It was on the second floor of a three story building - an actual apartment building, not a converted house, as so many of the student rentals were in that town. The apartment's best feature was its HUGE living room with large windows and an interesting (albeit dingy with age) black-and-white tiled floor. We envisioned turning the apartment into a 20s Art Deco style showplace, though that didn't get any farther than buying some black and white sheets with which to cover the hideous couches and black and white plates and mugs for the kitchen.
Annnnnyhow, it was not a bad place, despite the .........colorful neighborhood, and we happily moved in and went about our lives. Thanks to Google Maps and my ridiculously good longterm memory, I can show you a picture of the building:
Now, this was an older building (as evidenced by the picture above). Having grown up in a very old farmhouse (as in: 1740s vintage), I was used to the quirks an old building can have. You know, the occasional creak or squeak or dripping faucet... None of that sort of thing fazed me in the least. After a few years of living with roommates, I was used to those sorts of quirks, as well - a light left on here, a door left ajar there, things taken out and not put back exactly where they had been before. No big whoop. So, a few weeks into the semester, my roommate and I attended a party at a home occupied by a bunch of grad students (friends of her boyfriend's) that was in the same neighborhood. In the course of chatting with some of these people, it came up that we lived just up the road. Someone asked us where, specifically, and when we told him, he said to us "Oh, the haunted building on the corner?"
Haunted building? Did he just say haunted building?
Yep, that's what he said. We tried to inquire further, but the noise level and his alcohol level made getting solid details mostly impossible. He and the group of people we were standing with all nodded vigorously in agreement that our building was most definitely said to be haunted, that much was clear. My roommate went off in search of her boyfriend at that point, and it wasn't until later when he was walking us home that I realized how upset she was over the news. I shrugged it off for the most part, chalking it up to a local urban legend at best.
Except all of a sudden, those creaks and squeaks and things that went bump in the night seemed a bit more.....ominous. The faucet that would start running in the bathroom or kitchen sinks wasn't as easily dismissed as "Oh, she must've left the water running." Ditto for the lights that we could've sworn we turned off at night before retiring to our respective bedrooms and then find on the next day. Neither of us were prone to sleepwalking, much less sleep-dishwashing or sleep-toothbrushing, so finding the tap running or a light on in the morning began becoming more and more disconcerting.
Then, it happened. I was home at the apartment alone one evening, my roommate having gone over to her boyfriend's place for dinner. Around 10pm, she called me to say that she was staying over there, so I could put the chain on the door, which I went and did as soon as I got off the phone. I decided to go to bed shortly thereafter, checking the lock and chain on the door, making sure all lights and taps and everything were off, and closing my bedroom door behind me.
Now, I am a sound sleeper. One might say I sleep like the dead, even. But that night, something woke me up around 3 am. I sat up in bed, trying to figure out what it had been. (Our upstairs neighbors favored loud, heavy metal music and seemed to have footwear solely composed of cement blocks.) As I came fully awake, I realized I could hear noise coming from the living room. I got up, turned on my bedroom light, opened the door and found the stereo was on. The stereo that I had not been listening to before going to bed - I'd had the TV on - was on and set to the radio (I'd been listening to a cassette earlier in the day, so the knob had not been set to "tuner" when I'd shut it off hours before.)
I chose not to think about how and why it was on and instead rushed across the room and shut it off, then ran back into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, and got back in bed. Eventually, I fell asleep again. When I next woke up, it was a little after 7 in the morning. I got up, opened my door and............. the radio was on again. On and turned to a station that played jazz way down at the other end of the dial, far from any of the rock stations my roommate and I preferred. Also, the chairs that had been pushed in under the dining room table against the opposite wall were pulled out, away from the table, and set together a few feet into the living room, facing the windows. As though someone had wanted to sit and admire the view while listening to some jazz.
In the light of day, I didn't feel nearly as freaked out, so I bravely marched across the room, switched the radio back to our preferred station and then shut it off and moved the chairs back to where they belonged. I checked once again - all the windows were shut and locked (and besides, we were on a second floor apartment with no fire escapes or other easy means of reaching them), and the door was locked with the chain still on. At first I was convinced my roommate had come home, somehow gotten in to the apartment despite the chain and had been messing with me. This wasn't at all her style, but still. Just to be on the safe side, I called her up over at her boyfriend's apartment. Nope, she hadn't been home - in fact, I woke them up by calling. I explained to her what I'd discovered overnight and that morning, thoroughly freaking her out in the process. She never spent another night in our apartment the rest of the lease without her boyfriend sleeping over, and more nights than not she wound up spending at his place or going home to her parents' house, as they lived nearby. I, on the other hand, continued to live in the apartment with whatever (whomever?) else had been there before our lease. I'd even occasionally chastise them aloud for leaving a light on or the tap running, since the utility bills were only being split two ways. Other than trying to avoid the laundry facilities in the basement unless it was daylight (the basement was spooky in and of itself, haunted or otherwise), I had no major issues with our building's other tenants, human or ......? Throughout the remainder of the lease, lights would be turned on - usually in the bathroom or kitchen, and taps would be turned on in the sinks and occasionally the tub. Every now and again, a drawer or cabinet in the kitchen would be open. Things didn't always turn up where we thought we'd left them. A few times, small things went missing - loose change, pens, that sort of thing.
Did we have ghosts sharing the apartment with us? I couldn't say for sure. I will say that whatever dwelled there (beyond the death metal Neanderthals upstairs) was fairly benign. Nothing malicious or harmful ever transpired in the apartment, beyond the slightly higher utility bills. I never did find out the story behind the building's supposed haunting. I'm still curious, though... So, what about you? Do you believe in ghosts and hauntings? Have you ever shared a home with a poltergeist? Can you come up with a more rational explanation for the goings-on in our apartment that year?
And on that note, Happy Halloween to you and yours from me and mine! I'll leave you with our jack o'lantern for this year, carved by Hubby and Kiddo (I do NOT do pumpkin guts) earlier this afternoon:
Friday, May 8, 2009
In which I utterly blow any last remnants of my ladylike reputation clear to Heck
I've been debating whether or not I should relate the following anecdote. I mean, I do have a reputation to uphold, that of a dainty, delicate, utterly ladylike and genteel chick, of course...
At first, I was going to keep this to myself. Then, my dear friend Givinya de Elba posted something on her blog which spurred me into replying, via comment, about what had transpired despite my decision to keep this one in the vault and uphold my rep and all.
Furthermore, I was not, not, not going to share this with Hubby. I was firm on that one. I mean, it is true that over the past 16 and a half years we've been together, the bloom has somewhat come off the rose. The air of mystery surrounding All Things Feminine has long since whooshed out the window opened in the House Where Chicks Outnumber Dude. But, despite my resolve to not tell him, of course I did. Last night. Well, mostly - I was having a hard time getting to the crux of the matter given that I was giggling like a fool with tears streaming down my face. But he got the gist of my tale and then provided me with the perfect ending line, so now I am feeling compelled to blog it after all.
Here goes.... and if, by some slim chance, you're still subscribing to my Cheerful Delusion that I am a Dainty-n-Delicate Gal, you might want to stop reading now and go about your business.
So, I'm nearsighted. Really, really, reaaaaaally nearsighted. This is an accurate representation of Heather Without Her Corrective Lenses:
Seriously, I'm Squinty McWhatisthat without my specs. As one who has required glasses for more than one score and ten years (NB to Creative Junkie - I double checked and a score is twenty years. Apparently the brain cells aren't all pudding!) I have grown used to having to guesstimate what it is in front of my face at certain crucial times over the course of my day. The clock with extra-large, illuminated numbers that is over on Hubby's side of the bed (as he is the one who requires Control of the Alarm)? Perfectly used to squinting as hard as I can to determine if the number before the colon is one or two digits, and completely comfortable with the fact that unless it is 11:11, I'm not going to be able to tell what any of the numbers are beyond a glowing, green fuzz.
The tasks associated with showering are another set of things with which I am generally comfortable doing without being able to see them. (Goodness knows, the amorphous, jiggly, white mass that exists below my eyeballs is better left viewed in Extremely Soft Focus, anyhow.) Scrubbing, rinsing and that trickiest of all shower-related jobs: shaving, all are second nature to Magoo Me. Now, in order to shave my lower legs (and my big toes, if I am telling the complete truth, but what woman is going to admit to shaving her big toes? Let's just say it was a horrible mistake I first made back in my foolhardy teenage years that now requires regular maintenance, lest Sasquatch think I've robbed him of some digits in a weird, inter-species transplant situation) I have long since perfected a maneuver in which I prop my leg up against the side of the shower wall, kind of like this:
only slightly less dressed and graceful and also always solo. Oh, and I don't shave my armpits and legs simultaneously, so without the arm extension, too. Yes, for a big girl, I'm surprisingly flexible, and am able to effect the above position for better squinting proximity to shave.
Now, I must digress for a moment. It's actually relevant to the story, as you will see. I love prunes. Oh, I'm sorry, "dried plums" - thanks, Marketing Gurus! I love dried plums. Every once in a while, I'll be overcome while grocery shopping and buy a container of dried plums. (It does sound classier, I'll grant you that.) A few weeks ago, I was overcome in such a manner and thus, a large container of dried plums has recently been residing in our fridge. Dried plums that no one else in my family ever, ever eats, besides me. We've been frantically trying to eat down all the contents of our pantry, fridge, freezer and chest freezer with some decent amount of success, but it's taken effort. (We're down to about 1/3 of a case of frozen pizza dough balls, a Sam's Club sized box of Italian ices, and several bags of frozen veggies. Oh, and a large container of old-fashioned oatmeal. And Cheez-its, for Kiddo's lunches.) As I said, no one else in my family eatsprunes dried plums, so it's been me giving a dedicated yet solo effort to finish off the container before Thursday, when we move. As I *big, red, puffy heart* them, this hasn't been a hardship. (And I should further note for the record that while I adore Jamie Lee Curtis - A Fish Called Wanda and True Lies were both performances of comedic perfection - I do not have a need for her in her new guise as the Activia Lady. Regularity has never been an issue for me, is what I'm saying.) I've been popping them down by the handful (as in four or five at a time) a few times a day, like when I'm making Kiddo's lunch for school or emptying the dishwasher or cooking dinner or walking by the fridge. They're so, so delicious. Mmmmm, prunetastic.
So, back to my original story. The other morning, I was in the shower and up to the deforestation portion of events. I was taking care of business in my usual Big Girl Ballet pose, and when I was through, I turned around to put the razor back up on the top shelf of the shower caddy that dangles from the showerhead. It was at this point that I noticed something on the floor of the tub.
That something, to be specific, was two somethings. Two small, dark brown, blobular somethings there behind me on the tub floor. Now, I suppose I must confess that while regularity isn't a problem for me in any event, my present Extra-Prunetastic diet has led to the occasional gaseous emission. And, while I was Leg Up on the Wall and shaving, I had a few such emissions. Whatever, I was home alone (well, besides the cat and frankly there is nothing I could bodily emit that could touch her post-bologna-consumption farts.) (NB to Crazy Sister - I amend my comment on your post earlier today. My cat's post-bologna-consumption gas might be the Worst Smell, Ever.) So, I froze at the sight of these two, small, dark brown, blobular somethings fuzzily peering up at me through the steam and myopia.
I will confess that I pondered for a moment or two if any of my recent gaseous emissions might've been a bit more... strenuous than I'd thought at the time. I mean, I was distracted by my Shaving By Braille method and the whole Trying Not to Slice My Legs or Feet Open business. But could I have been that distracted? Paraphrasing what Givinya said in her related blog post, getting up close and personal to such a potential biohazard in order to see it clearly is not something one wants to do. I bent over and squinted for all I was worth, but didn't dare actually get down onto the floor of the tub and poke my nose into it to see for sure. I hopped out of the shower and grabbed for my glasses and then turned back around to face the music.
This is what I found:
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*
That's Don Diego and Brownie, aka two of Kiddo's Teeny Tiny Guys, Dog Pack Division. (She has a multitude of TTGs, from dogs and cats to farm and zoo animals to two Teeny Tiny T. Rexes. Hubby and I have stepped on every single one of them over the years, too.) She's taken to bringing the TTG Dog Pack into the tub with her, as the dinosaurs in there were apparently getting dull. (They are getting rather icky from dwelling permanently on the ledge of the tub and may stay behind when we move...) I guess I didn't hear the clatter of Don Diego and Brownie as they slipped from their ledgeside perch to the floor of the tub, singing heartily as I was as per usual while going about my Showery Business.
Whew.
So, in conclusion, I told Hubby about this last night. He rolled his eyes at me, rolled over and began drifting off to sleep (a sleep that was full of dreams of loading U-Hauls and hoping that everything would fit, apparently). A few moments later, he rolled back over towards me, opened one eye and said "You know, the moral of that story is that you should never, ever eat anything without your glasses on."
He's probably right, too.
* Don Diego and Brownie's actual size is less than one inch, each. They come from that vending machine in the row of nasty gumballs and You're Never Going to Be Allowed to Get That candy in the front of the supermarket. So, they are in fact quite small.
At first, I was going to keep this to myself. Then, my dear friend Givinya de Elba posted something on her blog which spurred me into replying, via comment, about what had transpired despite my decision to keep this one in the vault and uphold my rep and all.
Furthermore, I was not, not, not going to share this with Hubby. I was firm on that one. I mean, it is true that over the past 16 and a half years we've been together, the bloom has somewhat come off the rose. The air of mystery surrounding All Things Feminine has long since whooshed out the window opened in the House Where Chicks Outnumber Dude. But, despite my resolve to not tell him, of course I did. Last night. Well, mostly - I was having a hard time getting to the crux of the matter given that I was giggling like a fool with tears streaming down my face. But he got the gist of my tale and then provided me with the perfect ending line, so now I am feeling compelled to blog it after all.
Here goes.... and if, by some slim chance, you're still subscribing to my Cheerful Delusion that I am a Dainty-n-Delicate Gal, you might want to stop reading now and go about your business.
So, I'm nearsighted. Really, really, reaaaaaally nearsighted. This is an accurate representation of Heather Without Her Corrective Lenses:
Seriously, I'm Squinty McWhatisthat without my specs. As one who has required glasses for more than one score and ten years (NB to Creative Junkie - I double checked and a score is twenty years. Apparently the brain cells aren't all pudding!) I have grown used to having to guesstimate what it is in front of my face at certain crucial times over the course of my day. The clock with extra-large, illuminated numbers that is over on Hubby's side of the bed (as he is the one who requires Control of the Alarm)? Perfectly used to squinting as hard as I can to determine if the number before the colon is one or two digits, and completely comfortable with the fact that unless it is 11:11, I'm not going to be able to tell what any of the numbers are beyond a glowing, green fuzz.
The tasks associated with showering are another set of things with which I am generally comfortable doing without being able to see them. (Goodness knows, the amorphous, jiggly, white mass that exists below my eyeballs is better left viewed in Extremely Soft Focus, anyhow.) Scrubbing, rinsing and that trickiest of all shower-related jobs: shaving, all are second nature to Magoo Me. Now, in order to shave my lower legs (and my big toes, if I am telling the complete truth, but what woman is going to admit to shaving her big toes? Let's just say it was a horrible mistake I first made back in my foolhardy teenage years that now requires regular maintenance, lest Sasquatch think I've robbed him of some digits in a weird, inter-species transplant situation) I have long since perfected a maneuver in which I prop my leg up against the side of the shower wall, kind of like this:
only slightly less dressed and graceful and also always solo. Oh, and I don't shave my armpits and legs simultaneously, so without the arm extension, too. Yes, for a big girl, I'm surprisingly flexible, and am able to effect the above position for better squinting proximity to shave.
Now, I must digress for a moment. It's actually relevant to the story, as you will see. I love prunes. Oh, I'm sorry, "dried plums" - thanks, Marketing Gurus! I love dried plums. Every once in a while, I'll be overcome while grocery shopping and buy a container of dried plums. (It does sound classier, I'll grant you that.) A few weeks ago, I was overcome in such a manner and thus, a large container of dried plums has recently been residing in our fridge. Dried plums that no one else in my family ever, ever eats, besides me. We've been frantically trying to eat down all the contents of our pantry, fridge, freezer and chest freezer with some decent amount of success, but it's taken effort. (We're down to about 1/3 of a case of frozen pizza dough balls, a Sam's Club sized box of Italian ices, and several bags of frozen veggies. Oh, and a large container of old-fashioned oatmeal. And Cheez-its, for Kiddo's lunches.) As I said, no one else in my family eats
So, back to my original story. The other morning, I was in the shower and up to the deforestation portion of events. I was taking care of business in my usual Big Girl Ballet pose, and when I was through, I turned around to put the razor back up on the top shelf of the shower caddy that dangles from the showerhead. It was at this point that I noticed something on the floor of the tub.
That something, to be specific, was two somethings. Two small, dark brown, blobular somethings there behind me on the tub floor. Now, I suppose I must confess that while regularity isn't a problem for me in any event, my present Extra-Prunetastic diet has led to the occasional gaseous emission. And, while I was Leg Up on the Wall and shaving, I had a few such emissions. Whatever, I was home alone (well, besides the cat and frankly there is nothing I could bodily emit that could touch her post-bologna-consumption farts.) (NB to Crazy Sister - I amend my comment on your post earlier today. My cat's post-bologna-consumption gas might be the Worst Smell, Ever.) So, I froze at the sight of these two, small, dark brown, blobular somethings fuzzily peering up at me through the steam and myopia.
I will confess that I pondered for a moment or two if any of my recent gaseous emissions might've been a bit more... strenuous than I'd thought at the time. I mean, I was distracted by my Shaving By Braille method and the whole Trying Not to Slice My Legs or Feet Open business. But could I have been that distracted? Paraphrasing what Givinya said in her related blog post, getting up close and personal to such a potential biohazard in order to see it clearly is not something one wants to do. I bent over and squinted for all I was worth, but didn't dare actually get down onto the floor of the tub and poke my nose into it to see for sure. I hopped out of the shower and grabbed for my glasses and then turned back around to face the music.
This is what I found:
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*
That's Don Diego and Brownie, aka two of Kiddo's Teeny Tiny Guys, Dog Pack Division. (She has a multitude of TTGs, from dogs and cats to farm and zoo animals to two Teeny Tiny T. Rexes. Hubby and I have stepped on every single one of them over the years, too.) She's taken to bringing the TTG Dog Pack into the tub with her, as the dinosaurs in there were apparently getting dull. (They are getting rather icky from dwelling permanently on the ledge of the tub and may stay behind when we move...) I guess I didn't hear the clatter of Don Diego and Brownie as they slipped from their ledgeside perch to the floor of the tub, singing heartily as I was as per usual while going about my Showery Business.
Whew.
So, in conclusion, I told Hubby about this last night. He rolled his eyes at me, rolled over and began drifting off to sleep (a sleep that was full of dreams of loading U-Hauls and hoping that everything would fit, apparently). A few moments later, he rolled back over towards me, opened one eye and said "You know, the moral of that story is that you should never, ever eat anything without your glasses on."
He's probably right, too.
* Don Diego and Brownie's actual size is less than one inch, each. They come from that vending machine in the row of nasty gumballs and You're Never Going to Be Allowed to Get That candy in the front of the supermarket. So, they are in fact quite small.
Labels:
blogging,
burning question,
embarrassing moments,
eyeball woes,
glasses,
hmmmm,
Hubby,
I'm an idiot
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
A Major Crisis of Epic Proportions
HELP! It's a major crisis of epic proportions:
I might cut all my hair off again!
I'm really, really feeling strongly like I should just give up on the whole "growing it out" thing and just go back to a short(er), Mom 'do.
I want something sassy.
Something chic.
Something hip.
Something cute.
Problem is, my hair just. Doesn't. DO THAT. Not without major fussing.
And that, my friends, is the major issue. I want short, sassy, chic, hip and cute hair without having to do anything to it to get it that way. Or, not to have to spend more than, say, 5-10 minutes maximum to get it that way. AND, once I do get it that way, I'd like for it to stay that way. Because remember this hair?
Yeah, here's the thing about this particular look. Within a few hours, and despite the generous application of gobs and sprays and spritzes of hair products designed to keep follicles from frizzing or flying away or even thinking of moving, my hair was back to Wolverine Fawcett Van Beethoven.
ARGH!!!!
So here are some pictures of my hair at present. Let's call these the Before Pics, mmmkay?
Front:
Back/side:
(Please also note the wall of boxes in the background of the top picture; those are the 34 boxes I collected from the friendly and accommodating liquor store earlier today. They've become our own, personal Mt. Everest for both Kiddo and Crazy Cat. I'm amazed the wall is still standing at this point...)
So, you see what my hair does when left to its own devices? See how it wings this way and that, curling at just the bottom in weird, opposing directions? This is the end result of washing, conditioning, towel-drying, anti-frizz seruming and combing, then letting it dry naturally. Not. Pretty. At. All.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, my plan is to go and get my hair cut. At the very least, I need to get it trimmed, to de-split-endify and get my bangs back in their official neighborhood (that being just north of my eyebrows). I can't get rid of my bangs entirely - my hairline at the front is weird and not pretty and I hate my forehead. So, bangs in some form shall stay. (I learned this lesson the last time I grew my hair out, when I grew out my bangs for like 2 years and when they'd FINALLY reached a length that I no longer actually had any more bangs, I promptly marched into my hair salon and had her cut them back in, breathing huge sighs of relief as she did.) If I could achieve one of the cute-n-sassy, short cuts, that wouldn't require crazy upkeep and daily maintenance, I would do it, at this point, I think... But then, there's a whole year (actually, 15 months!) of suffering through the growing-out hell hair that I've done, all down the drain in one, fell cut. Would I regret giving up after perservering for so long? Maybe...
So, dear blogosphere friends (and random strangers who happen across this post), what do you think I should do? Please keep in mind that whatever hair I come up with has to flatter (as best it can - I realize it is just hair after all, and not a full-head plastic surgery substitute nor an opaque, paper bag) my head, cheeks and chins... I'd rather not look too matronly, but it also has to be age-appropriate.
Choices are:
A) Cut it!
B) Keep the faith and keep growing it out!
C) Seriously, Heather, there are way more important things to be carrying on about than your stupid hair! I mean, have you heard about the economy? The wars? Global warming?
If you vote A, any style suggestions (links to actual photos especially) would be greatly appreciated.
If you vote B, any style suggestions for the next interminable stretch of growing it out (links to actual photos especially) would be greatly appreciated.
And if you vote C, I know. I totally know.... And yet, I obsess. I moan, I stare at myself in the mirror, I try things, then I come here and I whinge on and on. It's my blog and I'll foist my follicle crisis upon the world via this post if I want to!
Stay tuned.... I will post After pictures tomorrow of whatever winds up happening atop my crazy noggin!
I might cut all my hair off again!
I'm really, really feeling strongly like I should just give up on the whole "growing it out" thing and just go back to a short(er), Mom 'do.
I want something sassy.
Something chic.
Something hip.
Something cute.
Problem is, my hair just. Doesn't. DO THAT. Not without major fussing.
And that, my friends, is the major issue. I want short, sassy, chic, hip and cute hair without having to do anything to it to get it that way. Or, not to have to spend more than, say, 5-10 minutes maximum to get it that way. AND, once I do get it that way, I'd like for it to stay that way. Because remember this hair?
Yeah, here's the thing about this particular look. Within a few hours, and despite the generous application of gobs and sprays and spritzes of hair products designed to keep follicles from frizzing or flying away or even thinking of moving, my hair was back to Wolverine Fawcett Van Beethoven.
ARGH!!!!
So here are some pictures of my hair at present. Let's call these the Before Pics, mmmkay?
Front:
Back/side:
(Please also note the wall of boxes in the background of the top picture; those are the 34 boxes I collected from the friendly and accommodating liquor store earlier today. They've become our own, personal Mt. Everest for both Kiddo and Crazy Cat. I'm amazed the wall is still standing at this point...)
So, you see what my hair does when left to its own devices? See how it wings this way and that, curling at just the bottom in weird, opposing directions? This is the end result of washing, conditioning, towel-drying, anti-frizz seruming and combing, then letting it dry naturally. Not. Pretty. At. All.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, my plan is to go and get my hair cut. At the very least, I need to get it trimmed, to de-split-endify and get my bangs back in their official neighborhood (that being just north of my eyebrows). I can't get rid of my bangs entirely - my hairline at the front is weird and not pretty and I hate my forehead. So, bangs in some form shall stay. (I learned this lesson the last time I grew my hair out, when I grew out my bangs for like 2 years and when they'd FINALLY reached a length that I no longer actually had any more bangs, I promptly marched into my hair salon and had her cut them back in, breathing huge sighs of relief as she did.) If I could achieve one of the cute-n-sassy, short cuts, that wouldn't require crazy upkeep and daily maintenance, I would do it, at this point, I think... But then, there's a whole year (actually, 15 months!) of suffering through the growing-out hell hair that I've done, all down the drain in one, fell cut. Would I regret giving up after perservering for so long? Maybe...
So, dear blogosphere friends (and random strangers who happen across this post), what do you think I should do? Please keep in mind that whatever hair I come up with has to flatter (as best it can - I realize it is just hair after all, and not a full-head plastic surgery substitute nor an opaque, paper bag) my head, cheeks and chins... I'd rather not look too matronly, but it also has to be age-appropriate.
Choices are:
A) Cut it!
B) Keep the faith and keep growing it out!
C) Seriously, Heather, there are way more important things to be carrying on about than your stupid hair! I mean, have you heard about the economy? The wars? Global warming?
If you vote A, any style suggestions (links to actual photos especially) would be greatly appreciated.
If you vote B, any style suggestions for the next interminable stretch of growing it out (links to actual photos especially) would be greatly appreciated.
And if you vote C, I know. I totally know.... And yet, I obsess. I moan, I stare at myself in the mirror, I try things, then I come here and I whinge on and on. It's my blog and I'll foist my follicle crisis upon the world via this post if I want to!
Stay tuned.... I will post After pictures tomorrow of whatever winds up happening atop my crazy noggin!
Labels:
blogging,
burning question,
fashion don'ts,
hair,
hmmm,
navel gazing,
stuff,
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Monday, December 8, 2008
What would you do?
Okay, internet friends and random visitors alike, I have a situation to pose to you:
There is a family that lives up the road from us. Their oldest child is in one of the other kindergarten classes at Kiddo's school. He is supposed to ride Kiddo's bus, but he hates the bus (he freaked the heck out at the start of the year) so he gets driven to and from school instead. Sometimes one of his grandparents drive him, but most of the time it is his mom or dad.
When I am waiting up at the corner in the afternoon for Kiddo's bus, I often see Dad or Mom driving this little boy home. They even wave as they turn the corner and head up the street, so they're acknowledging that I've seen them drive past.
Here's the thing: the little boy is NEVER in a booster seat NOR is he even in the back seat of the vehicle (they have two, four-door cars). He is always sitting UNBELTED in the FRONT seat. Sometimes he's not even sitting - this afternoon, for example, as his dad skidded a bit around the turn the kid was standing up and leaning against the front dashboard. You know, where the airbag is - the airbag that has all the dire warnings about grave injury or death should a child be in the front seat...
Now, the law for New York state regarding children and seat belts/booster seats is as follows:
There is a family that lives up the road from us. Their oldest child is in one of the other kindergarten classes at Kiddo's school. He is supposed to ride Kiddo's bus, but he hates the bus (he freaked the heck out at the start of the year) so he gets driven to and from school instead. Sometimes one of his grandparents drive him, but most of the time it is his mom or dad.
When I am waiting up at the corner in the afternoon for Kiddo's bus, I often see Dad or Mom driving this little boy home. They even wave as they turn the corner and head up the street, so they're acknowledging that I've seen them drive past.
Here's the thing: the little boy is NEVER in a booster seat NOR is he even in the back seat of the vehicle (they have two, four-door cars). He is always sitting UNBELTED in the FRONT seat. Sometimes he's not even sitting - this afternoon, for example, as his dad skidded a bit around the turn the kid was standing up and leaning against the front dashboard. You know, where the airbag is - the airbag that has all the dire warnings about grave injury or death should a child be in the front seat...
Now, the law for New York state regarding children and seat belts/booster seats is as follows:
Every child under age 16 in the vehicle must use a safety restraint. If under age four, he or she must be properly secured in a federally-approved child safety seat that is attached to a vehicle by a safety belt or universal child restraint anchorage (LATCH) system. A child under age four who weighs more than 40 pounds may be restrained in a booster seat with a lap and shoulder belt. A child of age 4, 5, or 6, must use a booster seat with lap and shoulder belt or a child safety seat (The child and safety restraint system must meet the height and weight recommendations of the restraint manufacturer).Exception: A child more than four feet nine inches tall or more than 100 pounds is allowed to use a seat belt that has both a lap belt and a shoulder harness. To use the seat belt, the child must be able to sit straight up against the vehicle's seat back with his or her knees bent comfortably over the edge of the seat. The lap belt should be placed low and tight across the upper thighs; the shoulder belt should rest tightly but comfortably across the child's chest and shoulder (collar bone) without touching the throat. If the seat belt does not fit properly, the child should use a booster seat with a lap and shoulder belt.
Okay, so first of all, this kid is not taller than 4ft 9in, nor is he more than 100 pounds. He just turned five years old. Now, the law doesn't require that kids ride in back, but it is strongly recommended by both the DMV, police and the car manufacturers. In any event, the NYSDMV says
Air bags deploy (expand rapidly) from the steering wheel and/or dashboard, and, in some vehicles, from the side doors beneath or above the window. The force of an air bag deploying may injure those who sit too close to it. Make sure to sit with at least 10 inches between the center of your breastbone and the air bag cover. If you are the vehicle's driver, place your hands on the steering- wheel at the 3 and 9 o'clock positions to keep them out of the way of air bag deployment. For maximum protection, children under the age of 12 should sit in the rear seat of the vehicle.
Standing up and leaning on the dashboard sure as shootin' isn't sitting at least 10 inches away from the airbag cover. Heck, Hubby snipes at me when I put my feet up on the dash while he's driving (and it isn't because they're stinky - it is because he's afraid for what would happen if the airbag deployed while I was scrunched down in my seat with my feet on the cover). I highly doubt that the neighbors are just letting their son hop out of the booster seat in back and climb in the front just before they turn onto our street, either - it seems like they let him ride that way whenever. (By the way, on those days when one of his grandparents is driving him, he is always secured in back in a booster seat.) Argh. I hate thinking of what could happen to this kid if the airbag deploys, or if they stop short as he is unrestrained - that windshield doesn't look too soft and safe to hurtle through......
So, what would you do if you were the one who saw this kid riding, unbelted, in the front seat day after day? (By the way, the school is just under three miles away from our street, so this isn't like a "just up to the corner" kind of a drive.) I am not entirely comfortable with saying something face to face to either of the parents; I don't really know them very well at all (I don't even know their name, just which house they live in up the street from us) and on the few occasions when they did try to have him ride the bus at the beginning of the year, they weren't particularly sociable or chatty. (Yes, of course I tried to chat while we stood there - this is me, the one who talks to anyone, anywhere, anytime, and besides it seemed weird to me not to chat as we both waited on the corner.) Should I cowboy up and say something to them? Leave a note in their mailbox - signed? An anonymous note? Call the cops anonymously and report them? Mind my own beeswax and just keep my mouth shut? It just seems SO unsafe, so very dangerous to let this little boy ride unrestrained up front like that.
Anyone with any opinion on the situation, please weigh in - I'm trying to figure out what, if anything, I should do.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Burning question: Holiday card update letters
It's that time of year again - holiday card season! I, for one, am a huge fan of holiday cards. I mean, what's not to love? You're getting fun mail in your mailbox every day for weeks - something other than catalogs, bills and junk mail, you get to catch up with family and friends (even if it's just at this one time a year), it's a dash of daily holiday cheer delivered to your doorstep, or at least your mail collection spot. I also love the holiday card update letters. I get extra excited when I open a card and a folded-up piece of paper falls out. I love reading everyone's news, I love pictures of families or kids or pets. I *am* a Christmas nut, after all, and this is one of my favorite parts of the season.
I realize, however, that not everyone adores the holiday update letters as much as I love them. Hubby, for example, isn't as much of a fan. He put the kibosh on our own update letter several years ago and has lobbied against its reinstatement successfully every year since. So, I'm curious - which one of us is in the minority, him or me? I've put a poll over yonder in the sidebar, feel free to voice your opinion on the subject there or in the comments or both!
I realize, however, that not everyone adores the holiday update letters as much as I love them. Hubby, for example, isn't as much of a fan. He put the kibosh on our own update letter several years ago and has lobbied against its reinstatement successfully every year since. So, I'm curious - which one of us is in the minority, him or me? I've put a poll over yonder in the sidebar, feel free to voice your opinion on the subject there or in the comments or both!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Burning question: Phone calling etiquette
Okay, faithful readers, lurkers and random passers-by who turn up from the vast expanses of the internet, I have a burning question for you.
What time of day is the earliest/latest you think is appropriate to call someone on the phone? I'm not talking about family or friends, nor am I talking about telemarketing (there's NEVER an appropriate time for them, is there?!). I mean for business or other such more "formal" stuff. For example, church related business or PTA/school related business.
I ask because I'm in charge of Kiddo's elementary school's Fall Harvest Fun House, and I therefore need to organize many, many volunteers to assist with the event. Now, here at Casa Smith, we tend to go to bed on the earlier side than most people. I'm aware that not everyone out there is ZZZZZing at 9pm, but that's not unusual for us! (On the other end of things, our alarm clock is set for 5:30am, so it isn't like we're utter sloths. Early to bed and early to rise and all that..........)
I've always thought that 8:30am was the earliest one should call a non-family-member-or-friend. I'm a little hazier on the evening. I don't like calling people after 7, personally, but I don't think it is rude to call someone before 8pm. The added wrinkle I'm stressing about is the fact that these obviously are parents of younger kids - I mean, the school is pre-K through 2nd grade - and therefore they, like us, are dealing with baths and bedtime in the evening hours, and then sleeping kids. I would never call anyone after 9pm unless it was an emergency, or unless I knew for an absolute fact that it was okay to call that late. But then, if you call between, say, 5:30 and 7, you are potentially running into people's dinner time, and that is equally intrusive and impolite.
At this point, I'm using email as my initial contact since I have email addresses for all but one of the volunteers. My back-up plan is to just call folks during the day, which will likely mean leaving many, many voicemails. Of course, the flip side of this is that we will have to deal with the return phone calls. I don't like saying "please don't call my house after 7pm...." but I have done that before, and am thinking maybe I should again. Last night, our phone rang twice after 8pm, as Hubby and I were finishing up dinner and heading to bed.
So? What do you think? How late would you call folks if you were me? What is considered rude? What do you think if someone calls your house after 8pm? Help!
What time of day is the earliest/latest you think is appropriate to call someone on the phone? I'm not talking about family or friends, nor am I talking about telemarketing (there's NEVER an appropriate time for them, is there?!). I mean for business or other such more "formal" stuff. For example, church related business or PTA/school related business.
I ask because I'm in charge of Kiddo's elementary school's Fall Harvest Fun House, and I therefore need to organize many, many volunteers to assist with the event. Now, here at Casa Smith, we tend to go to bed on the earlier side than most people. I'm aware that not everyone out there is ZZZZZing at 9pm, but that's not unusual for us! (On the other end of things, our alarm clock is set for 5:30am, so it isn't like we're utter sloths. Early to bed and early to rise and all that..........)
I've always thought that 8:30am was the earliest one should call a non-family-member-or-friend. I'm a little hazier on the evening. I don't like calling people after 7, personally, but I don't think it is rude to call someone before 8pm. The added wrinkle I'm stressing about is the fact that these obviously are parents of younger kids - I mean, the school is pre-K through 2nd grade - and therefore they, like us, are dealing with baths and bedtime in the evening hours, and then sleeping kids. I would never call anyone after 9pm unless it was an emergency, or unless I knew for an absolute fact that it was okay to call that late. But then, if you call between, say, 5:30 and 7, you are potentially running into people's dinner time, and that is equally intrusive and impolite.
At this point, I'm using email as my initial contact since I have email addresses for all but one of the volunteers. My back-up plan is to just call folks during the day, which will likely mean leaving many, many voicemails. Of course, the flip side of this is that we will have to deal with the return phone calls. I don't like saying "please don't call my house after 7pm...." but I have done that before, and am thinking maybe I should again. Last night, our phone rang twice after 8pm, as Hubby and I were finishing up dinner and heading to bed.
So? What do you think? How late would you call folks if you were me? What is considered rude? What do you think if someone calls your house after 8pm? Help!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Weathery wonderings
Am I the only parent out there who agonizes over how to dress my child for school each day? I'm not talking in terms of fashion trends or what-have-you, I mean in terms of weather. Every single night, I check the weather forecast - usually in two or three different places, as they can differ, and then lay out an outfit for Kiddo to wear the next day. Then, in the morning I'm back to checking the weather all over again, and I agonize some more, oftentimes changing part of what I'd set out the night before.
Part of my trouble with dressing her appropriately for the weather is that the weather here can vary greatly within the course of a single day, especially in the fall and spring. It will be downright chilly in the mornings and then 15 or 20 degrees warmer by midafternoon. It wasn't quite as hard when Kiddo was just in half-day preschool; I'd dress her for the morning temps and then she could change when she got home if it was significantly warmer. But now, I have to consider the whole day. While it is frosty in the mornings (seriously, we had frost last week) and we're shivering at the bus stop, it turns summerlike in a matter of hours and she's sweaty when she hops off the bus at the end of the day.
I also fret over what temperature range equals what length of sleeve/pant leg. I'm usually on the cold side, personally, so I can be comfortable in jeans/pants and a short-sleeved shirt well into the 70s. (For those of you from abroad who are accustomed to the Celsius scale, I'm talking about the mid-20s, according to the handy-dandy temperature converter I just consulted.) Kiddo runs hotter than I do, in general, and is so crazy active all the time that she will get even hotter, so I have to take that into account.
Generally, my mental guidelines for dressing Kiddo go something like this:
80 and above: shorts, short sleeve shirts (tank tops if above 85), sundresses
70s: capri pants, short sleeve shirts
60s: pants/jeans, short sleeve shirts or long sleeve shirts (depends on upper or lower range)
40s and 50s: pants/jeans, long sleeve shirts
below 40: pants/jeans, sweaters, turtlenecks, long sleeve shirts, also an undershirt. Warmer tights if dresses or skirts.
Now, all of Kiddo's skirts are knee-length, and generally I go no tights for 60 and above, tights of according thickness if below 60. We don't do knee socks (I hated them as a child and they never. stayed. UP.) so she wears ankle-length crew socks or bobby socks. She has some longer dresses but nothing further than mid-calf (tea length), so the same sock v tights rule applies.
For outerwear, if it is 60 or below, Kiddo gets a jacket. We've got jackets ranging from lightweight to arctic, as you might expect. Also, living where we do, there are snowpants, hats, mittens and scarves to consider, as well as snow boots...
Even with all these guidelines I keep in my head, I still feel daily angst over her clothing. I guess this will continue to happen until she's old enough that Mommy doesn't get regular input into her attire (though I plan to exercise my Veto Power as long as she lives under my roof...). What do you all do in terms of dressing and the weather? Anyone else in a similar temperature zone, with the big differences between first thing in the morning and mid-later afternoon?
Part of my trouble with dressing her appropriately for the weather is that the weather here can vary greatly within the course of a single day, especially in the fall and spring. It will be downright chilly in the mornings and then 15 or 20 degrees warmer by midafternoon. It wasn't quite as hard when Kiddo was just in half-day preschool; I'd dress her for the morning temps and then she could change when she got home if it was significantly warmer. But now, I have to consider the whole day. While it is frosty in the mornings (seriously, we had frost last week) and we're shivering at the bus stop, it turns summerlike in a matter of hours and she's sweaty when she hops off the bus at the end of the day.
I also fret over what temperature range equals what length of sleeve/pant leg. I'm usually on the cold side, personally, so I can be comfortable in jeans/pants and a short-sleeved shirt well into the 70s. (For those of you from abroad who are accustomed to the Celsius scale, I'm talking about the mid-20s, according to the handy-dandy temperature converter I just consulted.) Kiddo runs hotter than I do, in general, and is so crazy active all the time that she will get even hotter, so I have to take that into account.
Generally, my mental guidelines for dressing Kiddo go something like this:
80 and above: shorts, short sleeve shirts (tank tops if above 85), sundresses
70s: capri pants, short sleeve shirts
60s: pants/jeans, short sleeve shirts or long sleeve shirts (depends on upper or lower range)
40s and 50s: pants/jeans, long sleeve shirts
below 40: pants/jeans, sweaters, turtlenecks, long sleeve shirts, also an undershirt. Warmer tights if dresses or skirts.
Now, all of Kiddo's skirts are knee-length, and generally I go no tights for 60 and above, tights of according thickness if below 60. We don't do knee socks (I hated them as a child and they never. stayed. UP.) so she wears ankle-length crew socks or bobby socks. She has some longer dresses but nothing further than mid-calf (tea length), so the same sock v tights rule applies.
For outerwear, if it is 60 or below, Kiddo gets a jacket. We've got jackets ranging from lightweight to arctic, as you might expect. Also, living where we do, there are snowpants, hats, mittens and scarves to consider, as well as snow boots...
Even with all these guidelines I keep in my head, I still feel daily angst over her clothing. I guess this will continue to happen until she's old enough that Mommy doesn't get regular input into her attire (though I plan to exercise my Veto Power as long as she lives under my roof...). What do you all do in terms of dressing and the weather? Anyone else in a similar temperature zone, with the big differences between first thing in the morning and mid-later afternoon?
Reunited, and it just feels awkward
Back in high school, I was good friends with a person I'll call X. We were pretty close then - did a lot of the same things (singing groups, theater etc) and socialized over the summers as well as during the school year, but as tends to happen, we lost touch once we moved on to college. Fast forward twenty years to the present. One day, my Facebook homepage told me that X is now on Facebook. I was so excited! Thrilled at the chance to reconnect, I immediately sent a friend request to X. X accepted and woo-hoo, we're reunited!
Only... not so much, as it turns out. I did a "personal message" along with my friend request, to which I got no response. As soon as I had confirmation that we were friended, I wrote on X's wall. No response. I sent X messages via Facebook and X's listed email address as well. Nothing. I haven't "heard" a single word since X friended me.
So, now I'm feeling kind of awkward. I'm not being stalker-y or anything, just trying to catch up with an old friend. I'm genuinely interested in X's life and how things are and what's happened over the past two decades, and I'm not trying to suddenly be BFFs or anything. It just seems so weird to me that X would friend me and then not a single word of acknowledgement afterwards... I can see where X has commented/posted on Facebook to other mutual friends, so it isn't that X is just not really "there" - X is active on Facebook. X just isn't "speaking" to me, apparently.
Is it weird that I'm feeling slighted or upset here? Am I reading too much into the lack of response from X? Should I just take the freaking hint already and stop trying to reach out to say hey and catch up? If we'd just been casual high school acquaintances, I wouldn't be feeling this way, but we were legitimate friends. There was no falling out or anything that ended our friendship 20 years ago; it was just a matter of going our separate ways to different schools and then gradually losing touch - first there were phone calls and letters and visiting when home over the holidays, then life just intervened, as it does, you know? (I am guessing it is an entirely different world for high school graduates today, with the internet available for keeping in touch - I was in college back in the nascent days of computers, before the internet really blew up. But I digress...) The thing is, there are several other people I went to high school with who have turned up on Facebook with whom I was not even particularly close back then, yet we've reconnected now and it's been really cool hearing about people's lives and seeing where folks are now and what they're doing. It's kind of been a pre-reunion as we're now collectively staring down our 20th which is coming up in the spring. (Egad, it has been twenty years since I was in high school. Where's my Geritol?!) It just makes me a little sad each time my Facebook status update tells me X has commented on someone else's photo or written on someone else's wall... I'm like "Hey! I'm here too!" - I feel like I'm being ostracized from the cool kids' table all over again, or like there's something green stuck between my teeth and no one's telling me. It's strange how this is making me feel all adolescent and insecure again. Like, "Hey, I'm cool enough now! Way cooler than I was in high school, even! Dontcha want to get to know me as an adult and see how I've turned out?" I mean, okay, I'm *not* really that cool now - coolness and me just will never happen, but still, I think I'm a pretty decent human being, albeit one who is now obsessing ridiculously over this entire situation.....
So, what do you think? Am I spending way too much thought and energy on this whole matter? Should I just forget trying to reconnect - am I just being obtuse? Should I go the other way and pick up the telephone instead of trying to connect via the computer? Do you think X is now regretting ever friending me and wishes I'd just leave well enough alone? Sigh.
Only... not so much, as it turns out. I did a "personal message" along with my friend request, to which I got no response. As soon as I had confirmation that we were friended, I wrote on X's wall. No response. I sent X messages via Facebook and X's listed email address as well. Nothing. I haven't "heard" a single word since X friended me.
So, now I'm feeling kind of awkward. I'm not being stalker-y or anything, just trying to catch up with an old friend. I'm genuinely interested in X's life and how things are and what's happened over the past two decades, and I'm not trying to suddenly be BFFs or anything. It just seems so weird to me that X would friend me and then not a single word of acknowledgement afterwards... I can see where X has commented/posted on Facebook to other mutual friends, so it isn't that X is just not really "there" - X is active on Facebook. X just isn't "speaking" to me, apparently.
Is it weird that I'm feeling slighted or upset here? Am I reading too much into the lack of response from X? Should I just take the freaking hint already and stop trying to reach out to say hey and catch up? If we'd just been casual high school acquaintances, I wouldn't be feeling this way, but we were legitimate friends. There was no falling out or anything that ended our friendship 20 years ago; it was just a matter of going our separate ways to different schools and then gradually losing touch - first there were phone calls and letters and visiting when home over the holidays, then life just intervened, as it does, you know? (I am guessing it is an entirely different world for high school graduates today, with the internet available for keeping in touch - I was in college back in the nascent days of computers, before the internet really blew up. But I digress...) The thing is, there are several other people I went to high school with who have turned up on Facebook with whom I was not even particularly close back then, yet we've reconnected now and it's been really cool hearing about people's lives and seeing where folks are now and what they're doing. It's kind of been a pre-reunion as we're now collectively staring down our 20th which is coming up in the spring. (Egad, it has been twenty years since I was in high school. Where's my Geritol?!) It just makes me a little sad each time my Facebook status update tells me X has commented on someone else's photo or written on someone else's wall... I'm like "Hey! I'm here too!" - I feel like I'm being ostracized from the cool kids' table all over again, or like there's something green stuck between my teeth and no one's telling me. It's strange how this is making me feel all adolescent and insecure again. Like, "Hey, I'm cool enough now! Way cooler than I was in high school, even! Dontcha want to get to know me as an adult and see how I've turned out?" I mean, okay, I'm *not* really that cool now - coolness and me just will never happen, but still, I think I'm a pretty decent human being, albeit one who is now obsessing ridiculously over this entire situation.....
So, what do you think? Am I spending way too much thought and energy on this whole matter? Should I just forget trying to reconnect - am I just being obtuse? Should I go the other way and pick up the telephone instead of trying to connect via the computer? Do you think X is now regretting ever friending me and wishes I'd just leave well enough alone? Sigh.
Monday, September 22, 2008
So *that's* what a frog's tongue smells like
The other day, Kiddo had such an great day at school that she was rewarded with not one, but TWO stickers at the end of the day. One was a sticker that said "AWESOME" and the other was a scratch-n-sniff sticker with a frog on it. Kiddo was quite excited about the frog sticker in particular, and was wearing it on the back of her hand when she climbed off the bus.
Kiddo: "LOOK at my frog sticker, Mommy! It SMELLS, you have to smell it!"
Mommy: "What does it smell like?"
Kiddo (in a "duuuuh" sort of way): "Like a FROG'S TONGUE!"
Mommy: *snort*
I bent down and dutifully scratched-n-sniffed. Apparently, frog tongues have a generically citrus-y smell. Who knew? Kiddo told Hubby the same thing when he got home, proudly showing off her sticker that smells "like a frog's tongue" and making him smell it as well. Hee!
All her excitement about stickers reminds me of back when I was in fifth and sixth grade, when stickers were all the rage. Kids actually collected them in special albums, as well as decorating the fronts of our Trapper Keepers and anything else we could stick them upon... I remember that along with Kiddo's beloved scratch-n-sniff stickers, which were always hot commodities (the weirder or more exotic the smell, the better), the best stickers to get were the "puffy" ones, and the most prized off all the puffies were the ones with googly eyes. I would beg my mom to buy me a strip of the puffy googly-eyed stickers, so I could be cool like the other kids at school, and how she thought they were a waste of money. (We didn't get an allowance in my family, and this was before I was old enough to babysit and therefore have disposable income of my own, so other than money received from the Tooth Fairy or a benevolent grandparent, we were pretty much outta luck.) Thankfully, there was constant sticker trading going on at school, so I did manage to score some googly-eyed puffy stickers that way. (And eventually, they'd get old and split and sometimes a teensy piece of foam would fall out of the middle... I'd try to do repairs with glue whenever that tragedy befell one of my precious, puffy stickers!) When I did have a couple of dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I'd stand there at the counter, gazing at the rolls of stickers (while the poor clerk waited impatiently for me to choose, scissors in hand ready to cut my selection from the huge roll) and figure out exactly which was the best sticker selection and value for my money. I certainly didn't want to squander my cash on a less desirable sticker - it was always quality over quantity for me!
Does anyone else remember the big sticker craze of approximately 1980-82? Was this just a regional thing, or was it more widespread? Perhaps I'll google it when I have a few moments (ha, more like a few hours) to kill... Speaking of which, I'm working on a post about the google searches that have brought folks to my humble blog, so stay tuned - some of them are really.......odd.
Kiddo: "LOOK at my frog sticker, Mommy! It SMELLS, you have to smell it!"
Mommy: "What does it smell like?"
Kiddo (in a "duuuuh" sort of way): "Like a FROG'S TONGUE!"
Mommy: *snort*
I bent down and dutifully scratched-n-sniffed. Apparently, frog tongues have a generically citrus-y smell. Who knew? Kiddo told Hubby the same thing when he got home, proudly showing off her sticker that smells "like a frog's tongue" and making him smell it as well. Hee!
All her excitement about stickers reminds me of back when I was in fifth and sixth grade, when stickers were all the rage. Kids actually collected them in special albums, as well as decorating the fronts of our Trapper Keepers and anything else we could stick them upon... I remember that along with Kiddo's beloved scratch-n-sniff stickers, which were always hot commodities (the weirder or more exotic the smell, the better), the best stickers to get were the "puffy" ones, and the most prized off all the puffies were the ones with googly eyes. I would beg my mom to buy me a strip of the puffy googly-eyed stickers, so I could be cool like the other kids at school, and how she thought they were a waste of money. (We didn't get an allowance in my family, and this was before I was old enough to babysit and therefore have disposable income of my own, so other than money received from the Tooth Fairy or a benevolent grandparent, we were pretty much outta luck.) Thankfully, there was constant sticker trading going on at school, so I did manage to score some googly-eyed puffy stickers that way. (And eventually, they'd get old and split and sometimes a teensy piece of foam would fall out of the middle... I'd try to do repairs with glue whenever that tragedy befell one of my precious, puffy stickers!) When I did have a couple of dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I'd stand there at the counter, gazing at the rolls of stickers (while the poor clerk waited impatiently for me to choose, scissors in hand ready to cut my selection from the huge roll) and figure out exactly which was the best sticker selection and value for my money. I certainly didn't want to squander my cash on a less desirable sticker - it was always quality over quantity for me!
Does anyone else remember the big sticker craze of approximately 1980-82? Was this just a regional thing, or was it more widespread? Perhaps I'll google it when I have a few moments (ha, more like a few hours) to kill... Speaking of which, I'm working on a post about the google searches that have brought folks to my humble blog, so stay tuned - some of them are really.......odd.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Accidentally overtipping: the story
So, here's what happened. I was in line at the car wash, waiting for my turn in one of the hand-drying spots, when I saw the dude in front of me roll down his window to "direct" the kid drying his Volvo SUV. He then got out of his car and followed the kid around as the kid is hand-dressing his tires. I turned down my music and rolled down the window, the better to eavesdrop on what the guy was saying, because it is highly unusual for anyone to get out of their car at the drying stations and follow the car wash employee around their vehicle - back seat drying, as it were. When the kid finished - apparently to the guy's satisfaction, the guy pulled a stack of bills out and peeled one off, which he handed to the kid. The kid beamed and started thanking the guy quite profusely. The guy was getting back into his car at this point, but the kid's effusive thanks made him stop, do a double-take at the bill in the kid's hand, and then he reached over, snatched the bill back with a loud "Whoops!" and pulled his wad of cash back out, replacing whatever he had given the kid with a single. Then he climbs back into the SUV, slams the door and peels out of the lot without another word to the kid. The kid was red-faced and clearly embarrassed by the entire transaction, which made me feel for him, especially as I was the next one in his lane. It also made me wish I had something larger than a buck with which to tip him.
Now, I didn't see the denomination of the bill, just that it was multicolored, which means it was at least a $5. Could it have been a $50 or even a $100 bill? I suppose, given the guy's clothing and vehicle, not to mention his wad of cash. However, given the guy's general a-holeness with the whole getting out and the bossing the kid around on the drying and tire-dressing of his car, I wouldn't be surprised if it was a measly $5. The kid's reaction made me think it was probably a $10 or a $20, it wasn't the full-on shock of a much larger bill, like a $100, I think that would have warranted more of a jaw-drop, you know?
Obviously, that's what got me wondering about what I'd do if I had inadvertently overtipped someone. I'm a generous tipper by nature, and I think that unless it were a $20 or greater (not that I ever carry anything larger than a $20!), I'd let it go. In any event, the customer could definitely have used a bit more grace in the way he handled it. Yoinking the bill out of the kid's hand without so much as an apology just seemed so rude.
Now, I didn't see the denomination of the bill, just that it was multicolored, which means it was at least a $5. Could it have been a $50 or even a $100 bill? I suppose, given the guy's clothing and vehicle, not to mention his wad of cash. However, given the guy's general a-holeness with the whole getting out and the bossing the kid around on the drying and tire-dressing of his car, I wouldn't be surprised if it was a measly $5. The kid's reaction made me think it was probably a $10 or a $20, it wasn't the full-on shock of a much larger bill, like a $100, I think that would have warranted more of a jaw-drop, you know?
Obviously, that's what got me wondering about what I'd do if I had inadvertently overtipped someone. I'm a generous tipper by nature, and I think that unless it were a $20 or greater (not that I ever carry anything larger than a $20!), I'd let it go. In any event, the customer could definitely have used a bit more grace in the way he handled it. Yoinking the bill out of the kid's hand without so much as an apology just seemed so rude.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Burning question: What would you do?
Say you're at a car wash, one of the places where a real, live person towel-dries your car by hand when you're through the automated part. Say you intend to tip that person a buck, as is customary. After you roll down your window and hand the kid the dollar, he thanks you profusely. It is at this point that you look over at what you've handed the kid and realize you didn't give him a single, but rather a higher bill.
What do you do? Do you ask for it back? Let him keep the inadvertently generous tip? Ask for change? Would you let him keep it if it were a $5? A $10? A $20?
I witnessed this exact thing happen earlier this afternoon at my local car wash. I'll tell you what the man in the actual situation did, but first I'm curious as to what others would do in the same scenario...
What do you do? Do you ask for it back? Let him keep the inadvertently generous tip? Ask for change? Would you let him keep it if it were a $5? A $10? A $20?
I witnessed this exact thing happen earlier this afternoon at my local car wash. I'll tell you what the man in the actual situation did, but first I'm curious as to what others would do in the same scenario...
Friday, August 8, 2008
Hmmm, think I can raise $10k by 9/2?
I really would love to come up with $10k by September 2nd - oh, and I'd need to renew my passport in a very expedited way and get a plane ticket, too.... But it would totally be worth it. Why, you ask? To make my dream come true - in other words, so that I could dine with George Clooney!!!
*swoon*
And hey, the money would go to my personal choice for US Prez to boot, so really, it would all be in the name of supporting change for America and just one more way to show I'm a good Democrat...
Now, how to convince Hubby that I really need $11k (might as well round up - a girl's gonna need some new clothes and possibly some liposuction for this event) and that he'll have to hold the fort for a few days? Hmmmm.....
*swoon*
And hey, the money would go to my personal choice for US Prez to boot, so really, it would all be in the name of supporting change for America and just one more way to show I'm a good Democrat...
Now, how to convince Hubby that I really need $11k (might as well round up - a girl's gonna need some new clothes and possibly some liposuction for this event) and that he'll have to hold the fort for a few days? Hmmmm.....
Friday, July 11, 2008
Locavorish
So, there's a big upswell in the locavore movement these days. It got me to thinking that I've been a sorta-kinda locavore for most of my life. Not intentionally or consciously from a "cause" standpoint, but just from life. I mean, I was seven when my parents bought the farm (um, that'd be literally, they really bought a farm, not figuratively as in "kicked the bucket") and we ate what we grew from that point on - vegetables from the gardens, fruit from the trees (including the BEST plums EVER until the plum tree went barren, *sob*) and lamb from the barns. Lots and lots of lamb. Lamburgers, lambloaf, spaghetti and lambballs. Mom used to claim that we couldn't tell the difference between ground lamb and hamburger, but sorry, none of us ever believed that! (Let me say that I have eaten lamb exactly once in the 20 years since I graduated high school and moved away from home. Lamb isn't exactly on the menu at college cafeterias, and I have never, ever of my own volition bought, cooked, or ordered lamb in a restaurant.) My mom canned and froze things - what items we didn't grow we'd go pick our own or buy from neighboring farms, like corn and peaches - and we used to trade a lamb for a pig, so we'd get fresh meat that way too (including the Best. Bacon. EVER. Mmmm, bacon.) We also would go crabbing and fishing down the shore in the summers, and one year we were really way too successful when the bluefish are running - it took over a year to kill that bluefish supply downstairs in the basement freezer. (Like lamb, I have never and will never eat bluefish again. Unless, you know, George Clooney invited me over for dinner and served lamb and bluefish stew. Then, I might eat it.) I mean, we weren't like Little House on the Prairie with Mom churning butter and making her own Frosted Flakes for us for breakfast or anything. We shopped at the grocery store but we did eat as much local food as we could. (We did have an old-fashioned, churn-it-'til-your-arms-fell-off ice cream maker. Dad's favorite recipe for it used strawberries and oranges. It was...........interesting.)
So, flash forward a coupla decades, and I'm locavorish again. We have, as I've posted about previously, a food garden in our little, suburban back yard, as well as a berry patch. (The raspberries and blueberries are just coming in to ripeness, though I'm bummed that the blackberries I got from a fellow Freecycler have not done well with the transplanting - I don't think I'm going to get many berries off them this year. Darn.) I really love going out into the back yard and picking the food for dinner there, like last night when Hubby said "oh, we're out of lettuce" so I popped outside and brought in a freshly-picked head of Romaine that tasted deeeelicious on our bacon cheeseburgers. Oh, and that bacon and hamburger? I buy from a local butcher (almost the Best. Bacon. EVER but not quite what I recall from childhood, but still a thousand, million, zillion times better than what one can buy packaged at the supermarket). I buy all our cold cuts, cheeses and most of our other meats from the butcher. (I get chicken mainly frozen in large quantities from the warehouse club store, as well as the chicken "dinosaurs" that the kiddo prefers. She basically only will eat chicken in some sort of breaded, animal-shaped nugget form. Sigh.) During our area's growing season, I frequent the farm stands within a 5 minute drive from our house, and there I buy our fruits and veggies to supplement my itty-bitty (4 ft x 8 ft) garden. The kiddo and I also do pick-yer-own all summer/fall long - everything from apples to berries to peaches, all right around the corner from our house, fresh, cheap and delish! (Oh, and we have our own, newfangled ice cream maker too - just plug it in and your arms will thank you! We tend to make ice cream following Ben and Jerry's recipe book. Mmmm, Ben and Jerry's!)
So, without consciously trying to be a locavore, I really sort of am to a good degree. I like knowing where our food is coming from (especially when I'm picking it myself), I like knowing the pesticides that were - or weren't! - used on my food, I think fresh food tastes better and I really like that it tends to be significantly cheaper. I also feel good about supporting local farmers, having been a local farm family myself back in the day. What about you? Do you try to eat locally? If so, why? Convenience? Cost? Cause? Health/nutrition? Other reasons?
So, flash forward a coupla decades, and I'm locavorish again. We have, as I've posted about previously, a food garden in our little, suburban back yard, as well as a berry patch. (The raspberries and blueberries are just coming in to ripeness, though I'm bummed that the blackberries I got from a fellow Freecycler have not done well with the transplanting - I don't think I'm going to get many berries off them this year. Darn.) I really love going out into the back yard and picking the food for dinner there, like last night when Hubby said "oh, we're out of lettuce" so I popped outside and brought in a freshly-picked head of Romaine that tasted deeeelicious on our bacon cheeseburgers. Oh, and that bacon and hamburger? I buy from a local butcher (almost the Best. Bacon. EVER but not quite what I recall from childhood, but still a thousand, million, zillion times better than what one can buy packaged at the supermarket). I buy all our cold cuts, cheeses and most of our other meats from the butcher. (I get chicken mainly frozen in large quantities from the warehouse club store, as well as the chicken "dinosaurs" that the kiddo prefers. She basically only will eat chicken in some sort of breaded, animal-shaped nugget form. Sigh.) During our area's growing season, I frequent the farm stands within a 5 minute drive from our house, and there I buy our fruits and veggies to supplement my itty-bitty (4 ft x 8 ft) garden. The kiddo and I also do pick-yer-own all summer/fall long - everything from apples to berries to peaches, all right around the corner from our house, fresh, cheap and delish! (Oh, and we have our own, newfangled ice cream maker too - just plug it in and your arms will thank you! We tend to make ice cream following Ben and Jerry's recipe book. Mmmm, Ben and Jerry's!)
So, without consciously trying to be a locavore, I really sort of am to a good degree. I like knowing where our food is coming from (especially when I'm picking it myself), I like knowing the pesticides that were - or weren't! - used on my food, I think fresh food tastes better and I really like that it tends to be significantly cheaper. I also feel good about supporting local farmers, having been a local farm family myself back in the day. What about you? Do you try to eat locally? If so, why? Convenience? Cost? Cause? Health/nutrition? Other reasons?
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Burning question of the day - the way back
You know how, when we were kids, families drove around in station wagons instead of minivans? And how those station wagons had a third row seat that faced backwards, out the back window? What did you call that third row seat? (I guess it even applies to the minivans of today, now that I think about it. Though our third row seat is usually folded down or removed entirely, so as to better utilize the space to cram things like sleds or wagons or bags of mulch into our Sienna.)
In my family (and I think in my neck of the woods in general), we called that last row seat the way back (as in: I want to sit in the middle because I will get really car sick if I have to sit in the way back for the ride to Grandma's), but Hubby insists the proper term is the back back, and the debate has raged on for over 15 years now in our house. I wonder if this is a regional thing, like soda vs pop. (Side note: I refuse to refer to soda as "pop" even though I'm presently living in a part of the country that is weirdly, firmly entrenched in the pop camp. Drive about an hour east of here and it is 100% soda territory.) I wonder if there are other, completely different terms folks use out there in the great, big world. So, I'm putting it out to you, dear readers: What do you call the third row of seats? Way back, back back, or something completely different?
In my family (and I think in my neck of the woods in general), we called that last row seat the way back (as in: I want to sit in the middle because I will get really car sick if I have to sit in the way back for the ride to Grandma's), but Hubby insists the proper term is the back back, and the debate has raged on for over 15 years now in our house. I wonder if this is a regional thing, like soda vs pop. (Side note: I refuse to refer to soda as "pop" even though I'm presently living in a part of the country that is weirdly, firmly entrenched in the pop camp. Drive about an hour east of here and it is 100% soda territory.) I wonder if there are other, completely different terms folks use out there in the great, big world. So, I'm putting it out to you, dear readers: What do you call the third row of seats? Way back, back back, or something completely different?
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