Our House Is A (very, very) FINED House

It's astonishing how two people acting together can do something so much stupider than one person acting alone. My friends' moms used to say, "two heads are better than one!" but mine never did and I think maybe she was on to something. Or maybe she knew me. I don't know; it doesn't matter.

Two people acting together can be way stupider than one and the Y Chromosome and I are proof.

We live in a pretty nice neighborhood. Except for the highway that runs through it, it's nice because people keep their lawns neat and park their cars in their garages. We try to keep up but I destroyed the landscaping one year with a small set of sharp scissors and we've combined so many households, it would be easier to burn the garage down than clean it out.

At the same time, our street is so busy if you set something out on the curb it's usually gone within about 10 minutes. We sold a piece of furniture once as we were moving it down the front steps and we nearly had a nervous breakdown last summer when our neighbors borrowed our lawnmower and left it on the sidewalk when they stopped to talk to each other.

But what we did last week was really obnoxious. Actually, it was more than a week. It was more like two weeks. We bought a new sofa and when the guys who delivered it asked me if I wanted them to take the old one out, I said, "sure."

I failed to take into consideration that it was raining and people don't want sofas that have been left out in the rain. Then again, that wouldn't be odd for me because I think it's strange anyone would want any sofa that once belonged to someone they didn't know. (Ironically however, someone did take the seat cushions. How weird is that?)

So, we live in a neighborhood where no one has a TV on their porch, no one sits outside with a fan blowing on them, people have nice cars parked inside their garages, and we decide to set our old living room furniture out on our curb.

So far you're thinking, "Wait Jen, you're the only one who's done something stupid here..."

Well....When the Y Chromosome got home he said, "No one is going to take that couch, it's been out in the rain." I said, "Well, we should bring it in." He said, "No, we'll call the City and they'll come get it."

The next day I called the City and when I told the Y Chromosome the pick up date was three weeks away I said we should bring it in. He said, "No, we can leave it there." I said, "We'll get in trouble." He said, "Our neighbors did it and they didn't get in trouble." I said, "Okay." And there it stayed.

During the week I met someone who asked where I lived and when they said, "Oh, that's a nice area," I felt compelled to admit we had an old sofa sitting out front and told them if they were driving by they should feel free to take it; if they were walking by, they should feel free to take a seat. But of course, the seats had already been taken. It was so embarrassing.

On Wednesday, the Y Chromosome told me someone from the City, in a pick up truck, one that could easily manage a sofa, stopped to photograph the sofa. We considered a lot of reasons for this: They needed to know how big it was, where it was located, which sofa needed to be picked up versus which one (that was set curbside) was currently in use by residents simply for traffic spotting. Obviously, we had justification for leaving it out there.


On Friday, we received a Citation. It said, "Specifically, the property is in violation of [the HEALTH AND SANITATION Chapter] Section 91.69."

Once again, pretty embarrassing. It's one thing if you're a landlord and you get a citation for violating Health and Sanitation codes but this is our home. I called the Y Chromosome. His somewhat delayed response? This is a direct quote: "Listen, you know what I think? I think that guy who lives across the street from the guy two houses down who's so fastidious about his leaves called the City and told on us."

Okay, so now we live in a nice neighborhood with a leaf-sweeping tattletale.

Curiously, the citation was accompanied by a black and white photo of our sofa, sitting at the end of our driveway, in front of our house.

I guess this was to prevent confusion. They thought we were so stupid they could send us a letter that cited "...any bulky items such as furniture/mattresses..." and we would have thought, "you don't think they could be talking about the sofa, do you?..."

Or maybe it was really a photo intended to mean, "HA! See the sofa!? SEE IT?!!? We've got you now, SUCKAHS!!"

To Marley, May He Sleep And Slobber In Great Peace

October 7, 2009 -- Marley, The Only Dog, age 12, died peacefully surrounded by family and friends.

Marley was a good dog.

His interests included almost anything he could chase or eat, and he had a deep appreciation for sleep. He especially liked large sofas and he especially loved (along with his dog food and rawhide) steak, fish, shrimp, rotisserie chicken, scrambled eggs, lunch meat, pizza, mayonnaise, chips, cheese, and cookies.

Marley was loved for his free and liberated spirit. He never invested in a retirement account or worried about having a 401K. He didn't have a girlfriend but he loved all women and they loved him back. He never got his driver's license and he never voted. He never had a job or money but he was generous with happiness and love.

Although things got a lot tougher for him in his final years as his health declined, he never complained, not once.

Memorial donations in lieu of flowers may be made to any Golden Retriever rescue organization or your local SPCA.

COMCAST TRULY CAN PROVIDE TEACHING MOMENTS

I read the Mimi Smartypants blog. She's an editor or something. I'm not really sure what she does but I am sure of what she is. She is hilarious. In one post she writes about the back of a Wheat Thins box and points out that although someone bothered to use a semi colon correctly, they didn't end the sentence with a period.

I thought that was funny and I appreciated the observation. For some reason, finding something like that sends a charge of triumph through me. She might not be that petty but I am.

You can imagine, therefore, how it felt the other day when the guy from Comcast handed me a High-Speed Internet Self-Install Kit and I looked down at the box.

I've provided you with another, larger view. Click on it if you need to (just remember to use the back button and not the X to close it).

See anything strange about it?

How about Comcast's new way of spelling the word "seperately?"

Immediately, a Google search response flashed before my eyes:

Did you mean: separately

Lately Comcast is getting a lot of exposure for using Twitter. I think it's premature. They haven't even started using Spell Check.

I've also heard Comcast is winning awards for customer service (hard to believe), but I'll tell you what: they won't be winning any spelling bees. Ironically, over the last few years Comcast has started sponsoring spelling bees. That's okay, as long as they don't participate in them, but I was thinking maybe they should consider recruiting a few of the winners. Check it out here and here.

A Short Story

The Y Chromosome gave me a couple of books the other night and said, "Here, I got these for you because they were giving them away at the bookstore." (What!? Free stuff? What is it!? I'm interested!)

I asked him if "free" meant he paid the $3.98 price tag stuck to the corners but he said no, the bookstore was giving them away because they couldn't sell them. (Honey, I'm touched!) He wanted to know why I thought he was lying.

Well, I didn't think he was lying, I thought he was using "giving them away" as a euphemism for "cheap." But then I wanted to know why he thought I wanted something the bookstore couldn't sell for less than $4.

And so it goes.

I started the first book the night before last. It's a collection of "fresh fiction from the top writing programs" aptly entitled "Best New American Voices 2007." Seriously.

(Note: Not described as "fresh fiction from the top writers" and not entitled "Best New American Fiction 2007.")

Curiously enough, while I like to write and hope to entertain (myself), I'm not a fan of short stories or fictional essays that are randomly grouped together and serious. I either feel a little like a voyeur or a little like I'm with someone I just met and they're committing a serious sharing violation.

She never felt this way before. It was so unexpected. She opened her bedside drawer where she kept her bible and [some random sex toy] and placed the flower carefully between the two.
Okay, thanks, didn't expect that.

Of course, I can never read a collection of short stories without being reminded of the time I picked up a collection by Ernest Hemingway. You might have heard of him once. I didn't realize it was short stories and it took me until I finished the third "chapter" to think "this book doesn't make any sense."

I also struggle with the hanging endings. Only a few pages and you're implicated in someone's big, beautiful, complicated life. And then it's over. It reminds me of when I was a kid and the super cool insult after someone told you something was, "And then what happened?"

The writers of this collection have quite a pedigree. They write for a living and attended things like the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. (I write, but only for my blog. I attended a Meatloaf concert.)

I've read two of the stories so far. I didn't appreciate the story lines. In fact, I wouldn't call them stories. I would call them annoying and far too intimate, but these people sure can write. Here's one phrase that has drifted all day, unbidden into my mind: "hoping to find some clue to justify her unreasonable interest in this unsuitable rose..."

The End.

Johnny Be Good?

No, johnny be humiliating.

I had to see an orthopedic doctor this week about my back pain. I have very strong opinions about orthopedic doctors and this guy didn't change any of them.

Some of it was my fault. I should have left when the nurse handed me a johnny. Why would I have to wear a johnny? I was wearing yoga pants (no, I don't do yoga; yes, I wear the pants). Any doctor, if they even needed to look at my back, could work with them.

I asked the nurse if I really had to take off my clothes. You would think my surprise would have made her think twice, but in her defense, I don't think she could think once. She just repeated herself and then told me I could leave on my underwear like that was a big treat. She left and I changed into a johnny. Like an idiot.

Then I had to make that decision about where-to-sit-while-waiting-for-the-doctor. If I waited in the chair by the desk I would have a problem. The set up meant that if the doctor asked me to move to the table, it would be quite a bit more than a few steps. I would have to walk across the room. To clarify: I would have to walk across the room in a johnny (opening in the back)...with the doctor sitting at his desk behind me.

Okay, that wasn't going to happen. I waited on the table. Like an idiot. Swinging my legs and thinking about how good I was looking...wearing a johnny and little white sports socks.

The guy finally showed up and introduced himself. Coincidentally, his first name was "Doctor." (That seems to be fairly common in orthopedics.)

He sat at the desk and asked me why I was there. I told him about my back and then he asked again why I was there.

I was stumped. For some reason, sitting there on a table, in a johnny, staring down at my little white socks, I started to feel a little at a loss for words. Maybe...Like an idiot?

He, of course, quickly concluded I had the IQ of a pet hamster. After an awkward silence he said, "Let me rephrase the question. What is it you have come here expecting me to do for you?"

At that point, it started to feel like a test. I was breaking into a nervous, clammy sweat and I was purposely trying to keep my mouth shut.

My back hurt. This guy was being a condescending @#$%&. He had to be more than 10 years younger than I. Put him in jeans and a tee shirt at Target, and I'd call him a punk. But there I was, standing in front of him, sweating, wearing a johnny and little white sports socks. I became painfully aware of MY clothing folded neatly on the chair next to HIS desk.

What was it I came there expecting him to do for me? Perhaps I should have suggested to him that I had come there expecting him to lend me some money. Or maybe give me the outfit they made me put on and let me wear it home.

I don't know, maybe it was crazy, but I at least expected to be treated in a respectful manner.

The upshot (apparently): My spine looks fine.

"[Almost everyone has arthritis; 10 days of pain is not concerning or unusual. Come back in eight weeks* and if it still hurts, we'll do an MRI.]"

Thanks for the invite, I'll decline.

You would think if my experience was that common one of my friends or relatives (or perhaps the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House) or maybe the doctor I saw at the urgent care clinic would have pointed that out to me, but they must be as ignorant as I am.

He asked if I needed more vicodin or anaprox and gave me a script for physical therapy. He got a little nicer at the end but certainly not enough to make up for his grand inquisition with regard to why I was wasting his time and certainly not enough to make up for the fact that I had to wear a johnny for no reason at all.

I have wondered how much more I would have gotten out of that appointment if I had not been wearing that stupid gown. I am sure I would have asked more questions and understood more of what was said to me. I probably would not be wasting more money, making another appointment, with a different doctor, to figure out what's wrong with my back.

I have also wondered this: wouldn't disagreements and negotiations go a whole lot better for me if I made people wear a johnny when they talked to me? THAT'S why doctors are so smart. I bet I would be a lot more successful, and I plan to try it.

*I had to live with the pain another 10 weeks before I got an MRI. It showed a protruding disk and two weeks of Prednisone fixed it. In other words, I went through all that pain, missed work, and took all those other drugs for 10 weeks because "an MRI is an expensive test." This confuses me. Was he going to pay for it himself?

Don't Eat It, Use It To Build A Hut

Tonight I made AMARANTH.
I have no idea how it came to be in my home but it was there, and I cooked it, and I had to explain it to the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House ("some cereal, s'posed t'be good for yah").

(I dare you to click on the photo.)

In general, the two of us try to do the healthy thing. We don't eat "white" anything too much anymore. We try to stick mostly to sweet potatoes, we love black rice and wild rice; whole wheat pasta. We like quinoa; we consider couscous a treat.

But AMARANTH?

It has this weird corn-like flavor that immediately sours in your mouth and then leaves a sour taste in your mouth. It has the consistency of paste. Sticky, thick paste. Sticky, thick, sour, paste. I do not believe that seasoning could make a difference. I am pretty sure it would ruin anything it touched, so I would be skeptical of any suggestion to mix it with something else.

When I went to look it up (which admittedly, I probably should have done before I decided to cook it instead of toss it) I found out it's sometimes also called pigweed because it was used in the past for pig fodder. Why anyone changed their mind about that and decided to put it in a cereal box is a complete mystery to me.

Amaranth is featured on health food holistic medicine sites (along with the ever respectable earcandling) and some study reported it's good for lowering lipid profiles in diabetic animals.

Well, maybe I won't throw out the rest. Maybe I'll keep it just in case the next time I get my cat's cholesterol checked, the results turn up elevated. (FYI: He's eleven. In his entire life, I've taken him to the vet twice. Except for being a little cross-eyed and having a pretty consistent, overall general look of drunkeness, I think he's fine and I don't see any ancillary healthcare services in his future.)

Apparently, amaranth was illegal for a while in Mexico. Considering how I feel about amaranth after tasting it tonight, this new information inspired the good idea to call my state senator and ask him to propose some legislation that bans it in NH, NOW. (After you review his profile you'll agree that he's sure to help me out with this.)

On the other hand, amaranth is also described as "Food of the Gods" and supposedly has almost 90% of total human nutritional requirements. Of course, aren't there some religions which worship pigs as gods? If I cared, I might research it a little better but I don't, and I'll get my nutritional requirements filled elsewhere thank you, please don't bother to pass the amaranth.

Here's another thing: one site I found described amaranth as "cultivated for [human consumption] too." That's just weird. I'm not suggesting that food shouldn't be cultivated for multiple species, but I'm just not going to get too excited about food that's cultivated for humans as a secondary interest.

I just know that bossy blogger SMC who's gluten-free is going to have plenty to say on this, but seriously, don't let anyone convince you that you'll like this stuff. It's just YUCK.  If you really just want to eat some weed, stick with a good brownie recipe.

I'm certainly not suggesting you shouldn't try it.  You definitely should. Like my mother always said in that perky voice, "You should always try new things!"  I am suggesting however, that you won't like it and you won't eat it, but after you've tried it, you should keep it.

It will probably come in very handy as a bonding agent the next time you're building a hut with cement blocks.

She's Got What It Takes

Not much can better bond two women than a good eye roll over another woman, arriving late to a business meeting, pushing her cleavage in front of her.

It seems like we should be beyond that but we're not. (Okay, I'm not.)

I know there are a few different philosophies on this. One is that women should wear whatever they damn please and there shouldn't be any eye rolling. Another philosophy is that women should wear whatever they damn please, but it's not going to get them any special benefits.

I don't subscribe to either. It's quite simple for me: cleavage is about sexy and sexy doesn't belong in the office. We also live in NH and for a good 8 months of the year, it's just too cold to expose that much skin; for that reason alone someone who does it should be identified as an idiot. World Class.

I know it still works for some women though. I worked with one over the last few years who became known as "[So-And-So] And-Her-Big-Boobs." Even the guys called her that. "Call "[So-And-So] And-Her-Big-Boobs and ask her if she (and her big boobs) can make it to the meeting." Despite such a damning nickname (or I guess, in light of), and even though I never, ever once heard one thing escape her mouth that could be considered even remotely smart or thoughtful, her career has been absolutely meteoric.

When do you think men will wake up and realize there's a class action suit here? Don't you think if one of them showed up to a business meeting sporting plumber's butt, they'd be out on their butt in a nanosecond?

I doubt it will happen because too many of them want to protect their view, but don't you agree?

www.rocksaltandwildflowers.com

I've been looking at dirty snow lately and instead of being excited about spring and looking forward to summer, I'm just resentful. This time of year is usually fun for people who live in NH because during the winter, human presence is virtually undetectable.

Once March tumbles in, people start turning out. Although during the heart of January they might have been outside shoveling, snowblowing, scraping their windshields, they don't look at you. There is an unwritten rule of NO-EYE-CONTACT. You don't want to get into a conversation with anyone when you just know your tongue is going to be stuck to your lip if you open your mouth just to say "hi."

(If the Aliens come to Earth during the winter, they will identify NH as a wasteland where they will set up headquarters and this will be good for them because by the time spring arrives, they will have conducted enough research and will be prepared to meet people in the slow, small, consistent doses that March and April appear to provide.)

Literally, people start appearing. They wave and smile. It's usually worth a good smirk to realize that your community is just sort of suddenly, "populating."

I don't care. I'm still resentful. Besides being chronically resentful about just about almost everything else you could possibly imagine, I'm resentful that I can so vividly picture the memory of a snowplow on the road in front of me, spewing rock salt and dirty snow onto the hood of my car and completely obscuring any visibility through my windshield. I can remember it as though it happened on the way home this evening, despite the fact that we're enjoying 55 degree weather here.

It's just that I hate rock salt so much. It poisons animals, pollutes the environment, kills the paint on my car, ruins my shoes, and strikes me as such a sterling characteristic of living in New Hampshire.

My new blog address (which I'm waffling about and which I think I might change again) was an impulsive decision. I concluded that I needed to try just a little harder to be happy living on the banks of melted, salted, sandy, poisonous grey slush for five months out of the year.

Most people might just plan a trip to Florida. Or change their real address. But I'm here, it doesn't look like moving is in the cards, and I have a blog. And I do like the wild flowers during the summer. I once heard someone say the seed was so expensive they didn't know whether to plant it or smoke it.

So, the new address is www.rocksaltandwildflowers.com. I am attempting to embrace the fact that living in NH means living with rock salt, while reminding myself that wildflowers provide beautiful roadside distraction. Or something like that.

I'm not sure what will happen to all my fans but I can't let you hold me back. (Seriously, I noticed my links to Cool Blogs and Random Interests didn't come with me, so I guess I'll spend an evening this week recreating that list.)

Also, I know Forsythia isn't technically classified as wild, but it sure looks wild and it's one of my favorite plants. I love the fact that it flowers before it grows leaves. It's so hopeful.

People who prune their Forsythia like hedges should be sent to PRISON.

By the way, today when I went into work, the creepy guy who's in charge of maintenance was using a real, electric vacuum cleaner in the parking lot. You know why? Because a regular broom isn't enough when it comes to rock salt and sand.

BIG NEWS

Changed my blog address.

The new address is www.rocksaltandwildflowers.com.

The old address was stupid.

I'm taking my alien with me.

Is This The Greatest? Yes. It Is The Greatest.

This is the greatest. It is the best and the most awesome.

I LOVE THIS. Don't you love this? You couldn't possibly NOT love this.

Today is March 9th, I lost an hour of sleep, it snowed 6 (f'ing) inches but I am just psyched because I now have my own little alien. I have a whole bunch of photos of these on my office walls. My biggest problem now is deciding whether I should take it to the office or keep it here at the house.

Seriously though, is this the most awesome little alien. I think everyone should have one. Everyone should have their own little alien, and I GOT ONE!

Michael Hawes made this and I love it even more because he said he got into the wine while he was making it.

That's exceptionally funny to me because I myself knocked back a few and then proceeded to practically knock myself out laughing hysterically while I photographed it learning to play Chuzzle, waiting for dinner and watching Special Vics.

(No, it wasn't really doing those things, okay? And I didn't really think it was, okay? It was just a joke, okay?)

Then I realized, "wait, that's not so funny, it's just funny to me. Maybe I should give it a day."

Check it out though, it's playing Chuzzle.

This is an awesome bone.

Happy Birthday, Here's A Toothbrush

My mother was almost fanatical about recognizing birthdays, anniversaries and holidays; even the most obscure ones deserved a card. On some occasions I was almost offended when I was surprised the post office or bank was closed...because my mother had failed to notify me of an approaching holiday by wishing me a good one.

Flag Day, Arbor Day, even that kind of thing. She might not always have had a card for it but we heard from her -- sometimes it was just a postcard. Her favorite line went something like this, depending on the occasion: "It's [name the holiday] and I'd like to tell you how I feel...I feel fine, thanks."

Since my mom isn't around anymore to celebrate birthdays and holidays with little cards and all that kind of stuff, and everyone is going through a few years of getting used to it, I've been thinking it's important for all of us to honor that. I've been thinking it's important to at least recognize a few birthdays: Her sister's, maybe? Her closest cousin? Her best friends?

Well, I doubt I'm the first to inform you but...there's a long stretch between thinking and doing. Thankfully, my brother inherited the card-generating-gene and he appears to be filling the void, quite nicely in fact.

Because of that STUPID Facebook however, I realized it was my aunt's birthday and since I know she likes assorted chocolates and I had figured she might want to try some of NH's best, I purchased a box of chocolates for her. (Well Identified: Soft Centers).

The intent was to mail them, she lives in California.

I think they were in the car for at least a few days, but in NH, it was well below 40 and they weren't sitting in the sun, so I wasn't too concerned. I was already about a week late, so what did it matter?

I ended up cleaning out my car though because I had to give someone a ride. I moved the chocolates from the car to the mud room and I put them on top of the dog crate. They were only there for just a couple more days (she wouldn't have cared, she likes dogs).

At some point, I must have thought it wasn't right to leave them on the dog crate though because I know I moved them. In the following weeks, I saw them on the window bench in the dining room, on the dining room table, on the kitchen counter, on the kitchen island, on the sideboard in the dining room (just kidding, we don't have a sideboard), and on the coffee table in the living room.

Finally, they wound up on the kitchen island again.

The Y Chromosome and I came in from having dinner at La Caretta last night and I asked him if we really should test the candy before I mailed it.

Keep in mind, I patronized THREE (3) girl scouts this year. I always figure that considering I don't have kids of my own, I should be the winner of bulk purchases for each girl, so we have plenty of sweet chocolate treats in our house: Somoas, Thin Mints (they'll be sued for that one some day), Tagalongs, you name it. (In my defense, at least some of those boxes make their way to the Food Pantry and I figure I should get double, if not triple points for that.)

It took about a nanosecond. He paused before he replied, the gold elastic band went flying off and an entire box of chocolates lay open before us.

I am so glad I did not send these to my aunt.

Hello? Pink cream? Check this out. It reminded me of when we
were little, we'd try to put them back together and hope one of our brothers popped the whole thing in his mouth.

You can't swallow the stuff, it just coats the inside of your mouth and tastes like a recipe of 1 tablespoon paste; 6 of saccharine.

And there was gel too.

It's so shiny it was hard to photograph.

Who eats this stuff?

And am I an idiot? What did I think "soft centers" meant? I am sure my aunt would have thought, "How old does she think I am?" because this stuff is clearly designed for people without teeth.

Of course, if you do like this kind of thing, having no teeth is most likely not a reliable indicator of age, but in fact, an indicator that you might have eaten some of it.

(This one to the left, it's green.)

We broke each one open out of curiosity and then we ate some Somoas.

FYI: I PREFER FILET

My sister says that it's very appropriate to "prune the tree of life." By that she means if you don't want to be friends with someone anymore, it's okay to break up with them.

After I spent almost a year telling her about a particular person/couple (I don't know why I bother being ambiguous, they're not reading this, that's for sure) we decided it wasn't such a great friendship, and I shouldn't feel bad about calling it quits.

When I called my sister and happened to tell her that this person/couple had shunned our, reluctant, invitation to a particular event (at the last minute) her reaction was, "Oh, YAY!"

No. No, not "Oh, YAY!"

I understand that the net outcome was EXACTLY what I was looking for, however, I was dumping them. Not the other way around.

This is the way it works: when I decide not to be friends with someone, I usually end it with a grand gesture. I insist on picking up the tab at a good and expensive restaurant, give them an embarrassingly generous gift, execute that final last favor-that-should-never-have-been-asked-of-me, or present them with something like a really nice bottle of what they don't know is Farewell Wine.

Keep in mind, this happens rarely, but when it does, I have good reasons.

In this case, even small encounters with this person/couple required copious amounts of alcohol; there was way too much "imbibing" and the next day was always just totally wasted. I try to avoid those kind of people because frankly, we don't need the help (it's not lost on me that they probably felt the same way).

Second, I'm not really crazy about people who so monopolize the conversation that they kick into high-speed, pressured speech so that no one interrupts them for the entire evening (hence, another reason for the way-too-much-imbibing -- if you can't talk, you got nothing else to do but drink, right?).

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking that people would naturally do this around me because I want to monopolize the conversation. Well, that might be true, however, it was also accompanied by maniacal laughter, weird outbursts of anger and other bizarre behavior that made me feel sort of uncomfortable and stressed out (and particularly since I'm so self-centered, I started to believe that I was the inspiration for it).

So I had good reasons and originally, I thought good luck.

There had been a general distancing of the relationship which had not concerned me. There had been a few incidents that would be easily excused between friends but in this case could be easily construed as subtle signs. I was thinking there wouldn't be a need for grand gestures - that the relationship would die a quiet, natural death...a mutual parting of the ways: dismissed as simply, "not a good match."

However, as luck would have it, a last minute favor was needed and I was greedy. I was quick to seize the opportunity. I saw it as a nice opportunity to tie up the relationship in a neat little package. Big bow on top.

What a mistake.

I should have just said, "sorry, can't" but I didn't, and things took a turn for the worse. They wanted to thank me and they insisted on having us over for dinner to do it. They served the most enormous steaks I have ever seen, never mind eaten, and the combination of being hungry, greedy, not being able to get a word in edgewise, and not wanting to be there, wasn't good...I probably demolished about a pound of it. Maybe more. I was sick for two days.

So when my sister said, "Oh, YAY!" it was like a firecracker went off: the last minute cancellation, subtle signs, little incidents, and the huge steaks.

They had served us our last supper...I had been greedy, they got the grand gesture, and we had been dumped.

Am I Missing Something Big Here?

Being one of the most important people I know, I receive sometimes close to hundreds of e-mails in a day. The weird thing is that most of them have to do with pharmaceutical drugs that aren't necessarily appropriate for women.


(This is a picture from our trip out west -- I'm cleaning up my e-mails along with some old photos on my laptop.)


The subject line of these e-mails usually reads something like, "Hi, Keep Her Satisfied All Night Long."

Not really, mostly, something like this:

"Hi, keeepe her satesfyd night all along."

It's obvious these people certainly weren't up studying the English language all night long, that's for sure.

I don't know why I keep getting these things. Is my name on a big long list somewhere?

Who is "Her" and who are these people sending these e-mails saying "Hi" like they know me?

(Here is a picture I found of the Space Needle when we went to Seattle a couple of years ago.)

The one that popped up today was from GOLDINAANTHONY and was entitled "Havee a lifee-loong holdiay with..."

I would ask who responds to these e-mails but I'm not sure I really want to know the answers to any of these hard questions.

Obviously, however, someone must be responding to them because when I open my e-mail, I am never let down. There they all are, coming on strong.

Satisfying all night; spamming all day.

In general, I believe that resorting to talking about matters of such delicate nature for the sake of comedic value is lame. So, don't get me wrong. I am totally, completely, serious.

People need all kinds of medicine to help them sleep, control their cholesterol, perk them up, whatever.

I just wonder why people wood take advice from an e-mail and then wood purchase a remedy over the internet. What happened to using the telephone?

Someone has to be buying into this stuff because they make it into such a big deal.

I'm so tired of it though. I feel like if I added up all the time it takes me to delete these things, it would be like, four hours. And I think after four hours, it's concerning and could be an indication of a greater problem.

(This is a recent photo of the Washington Monument. I think photos like this are kind of dumb considering you can just get a
post card but someone insisted on taking it.)

Somehow, I just know that talking about this issue is going to make it worse, though. I think men would say that.

It's enough to drive a person to drink.
(That was funny...like I need something to DRIVE me to drink.)

The Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House says that he doesn't know anything about this stuff and anyway, he's signed a confidentiality clause. What?

Am I missing something big here?

There are plenty of other products on the market I might be interested in.

For example, where would I find one of these? It's a really cool light fixture with plastic goldfish bouncing around inside (or swimming upstream, I guess) and it changes colors. I never get any e-mails about these.

Now click here.

I Am Yawning Right Now

I made up rules for my blog when I started.

1. No names.
2. No talking about people.
3. Nothing personal.
4. Never about work.

Something's gotta give.

I have included a poll for you because I care about what you think.


(Just kidding.)

Right now, I am sitting at home trying to prove my friend SMC WRONG WRONG WRONG. Of course, I'm cheating by putting it on my blog because I know that she will read it because it will pop up on her blog dashboard, but she is still wrong!

Here's why:

The other day I went into this gallery to get something reframed. (I always love going there and I always love hanging around a little. Fun Company + Great Advice = I'm A Greedy Girl.)

However, lately, because of some recent experiences (combined with some recent conversations, including one with HerSelf) I have been trying to be more "determined." (Does it get any more ironic than trying to be more determined?) And, I've been trying to be lower maintenance as a customer, client, whatever. I say lower because let's face it, when you're like me, shooting for low maintence is just a lofty goal at which to miserably fail ...in a meteoric way. Frankly, I'd also be concerned about the rebound effect.

(I should get credit all the way around for this current attempt.)

Here's how it usually works: I go in to get something framed (or reframed) and SMC shows me about 5,783 options which are all very similar...because she is a master. I then proceed to slowly narrow them down by removing about two or three at a time and then, I wind up choosing one of the first two she suggested.

(Someone who reads this MIGHT remember my mother.)

Although SMC is in the business of selling artwork valued at very substantial thousands of dollars she patiently stands there showing me choice after choice: a silver frame with an off-white mat, a white-washed silver frame with a white-ish mat, a brushed silver frame with a beige-tinted white mat, a goldish-silver grey frame with...you get the picture, no pun intended.

I choose everything she pretty much has suggested (I think), I leave, and then I call her within 24 hours to question my decision and she spends even more time reassuring me. Can it get more complicated?

It can.

Let's remember that I brought in the last piece thinking I was going to become more of a DECIDER, and with my new commitment to being lower maintenance. It meant I had to pay closer attention to what was being said AND I had to reject the possibility of more choices.

Combined with the fact that SMC knows me pretty well now, this has completely set me up.

She knows I'm not good at picturing things, she knows I have a hard time making up my mind, and she knows I like to think about things and then I change my mind.

(She was the one who told me this and because I had to pay closer attention to everything that was said, I heard it very clearly. I have considered whether my feelings are hurt but I've decided -- being the DECIDER that I am -- it doesn't matter. On the other hand, I have a bathroom vanity which requires a stepstool...so maybe it does matter. Well, maybe it doesn't matter so long as someone like her is around.)

But she's still wrong.

Although I can't remember the color of the mat of the piece I brought in and I can't remember if I considered whether that will look good with the frame I wanted which was supposed to match the other piece, and I can't figure out if that will look good in that color frame, I am NOT reconsidering this.

I was lost on back roads in Goffstown, NH in a foot of unplowed snow and I was thinking about that frame but I did NOT call SMC. I think that is profound self-restraint and I await your enthusiastic applause. Except for this sneaky little blog thing, I am not calling her.

I remain calm.

I Wish My Bathroom Vanity Was Standard Height For A Bathroom

Have you ever had one of those days where you realize life really would just be a whole lot better if someone did everything for you? Or, rather, in stead of you?

Remember that Talking Heads movie where that woman was so rich she never had to get out of bed? That's who I wished I was on Saturday. In fact, I'm sure the world would be a better place for us all.

It wasn't like last Saturday was different from any other. My To Do list was almost exactly the same as my To Do list of the previous weekend. That might be comforting to some, but not so much to me, considering that is my life. I'm starting to realize my To Do list really is just a Wish list.

What the hell, maybe I should just change the title of the list to All The Things I Didn't Get Done and readjust my ideas of what I should feel a sense of accomplishment about. I'm starting to understand why my mother always started her To Do lists with "GET UP, TAKE SHOWER, WASH HAIR" and I'm starting to think she was on to something.

Let me explain how this started.

We have not had a sink in our downstairs bathroom for more than six months and finally, Saturday, it was installed. This would be great except the salesperson, when she placed the order, failed to take into consideration that a shorter vanity was needed to accommodate a vessel sink. As a result, I have to warn you ahead of time, practicing universal precautions in my downstairs powder room will require a step stool.

The salesperson said, "I thought you wanted standard kitchen height." I said, "It's a bathroom." She said, "Yes, but these cabinets don't come in a shorter size." I said, "I wish I knew that."

Is your first reaction, "Big deal, stuff like that happens to everybody at some point...?"

No. No, don't even go there. At this point, I am so intimately familiar with the laws of If You Want To Get Something Done Assume That It Will Be Wrong And There Will Be a Fight First And You Will Wish Someone Else Had Taken Care Of It.

I so wish that someone would offer a conference on How To Wish Harder And Better So Your Dreams Of Getting Something Done, and Done Right, Can Come True because at this point, I believe it is my only hope.

Here's a snapshot of some of my experiences from the past year.

I was sued by a painter who left me with chipping and peeling paint. I so wish I had fired him on the first day when I had to point out that he had primed over picture hooks and Scotch tape that was left on the wall.

I had a fight with a furniture store over a couch that aged 10 years in 2 weeks (no, not because my dog was on it).

At work, I got into a squabble with an ad agency which sent me stuff riddled with typos and when I pointed it out, I got a sarcastic apology for trying to save me money by not proof reading. The owner also made fun of me on her blog (by the way, the economy looks great from my seat).

I paid a woman to make slipcovers for my dining room chairs and then she moved to Florida...with my fabric.

I had my hair cut by someone who had been recommended to me for years and walked away with a mullet.

I tipped a guy $3 at a fish counter for not spitting on the fish he cut and wrapped for me (which really doesn't have much to do with my point except to illustrate that I am desperate when it comes to trying to close out a transactional relationship without first getting into a fight).

I have therefore, logically concluded that "wishing" is my only recourse. I have carefully experimented with asking, demanding, paying, and praying. None of them work. Sometimes worrying works, because I've noticed when I worry the most, it turns out I had nothing to worry about at all -- but that's usually over stupid stuff like whether I'll accidentally find myself holding a toaster while standing in a tub of water. For some reason.

...So, the WISHING conference could be offered at a spa, preferably someplace warm, and I will invite my friends, who are also sick of hearing my stories and wishing I would shut up.

The other day, I asked one of my friends to tell me who cuts her hair and after a short silence she said, "No. No, I'm not going to tell you, because you'll wreck it."

My poll on whether Jen's blog is dreary ended on Friday. I'm pleased to announce that 9 people voted. 1 voted that it was Totally Dreary, 5 voted Just Kind of Dreary, 2 voted Not Dreary At All and 1 voted The Greatest Thing I Have Ever Seen In My Life.

Obviously, I have an awesome blog that everyone is pretty much in agreement about. I am pleased with the results and have determined that there is no reason to demand a recount.

Poorly Written Observations of the Second Kind

I think the world is pretty much divided up into three different kinds of people.

First, there are the kind who have healthy self-awareness, are directed by good prioritization and their own principles. They know their flaws; they try to keep them in check by operating with some self-restraint but they don't concern themselves too much with thinking about them, or those of other people. In fact, sometimes I really wonder what they think about all the time.

Then, there are the kind of people who have what would otherwise be good self-awareness, if they were not so preoccupied with it that they weren't talking about it all the time. They obsess about what's wrong with themselves, what's right with themselves, why other people are wrong or right about what's right or wrong about themselves. They are pretty much directed by what other people might think or won't think or said or didn't say or would say or wouldn't say, and figure that if someone didn't throw down a red carpet and flowers before them, they hate them.

And then there are the others. They have absolutely NO self-awareness at all and are virtually insufferable.

The problem is that the first kind gets a huge kick out of the second kind and doesn't necessarily even notice the third kind.

The second kind is really bothered by the fact that they can't be like the first kind and the third kind bugs the crap out of them.

The third kind is oblivious.

I bet you know what kind I consider myself to be. I've thought about it a lot.

What kind are you?

The Y Chomosome Who Lives In My House said my blog looks dreary. Do you think it is dreary? My understanding is that grey is fashion-forward but SMC told me she wasn't crazy about grey either. So, is it dreary?

Dreary is a good word -- underused. So is dour, but it's pronunciation is so complicated I think it confuses people when you call someone "door." Don't you think?

Back to Me and Mine: Dreary?

I Tip...Not Because I Get Good Service But Because I'm an Idiot

Yesterday I went into a nearby seafood store and ordered a pound and a half of salmon. The kid behind the counter sliced the fish, weighed it, wrapped it, and handed it to me. I presented him with my credit card, he swiped it, laid the receipt down on the counter, circled the word TIP, and handed me the pen.

I took that as a hint. Would you?

Like an idiot, instead of crossing out the word TIP, signing the receipt, and handing it back to him I stood there for a second completely frozen in confusion.

In a restaurant, I usually tip about 20%. (Just kidding, I never tip, Roberto is the one picking up the check.)

Seriously, I think about 20% is good, sometimes a little more, because I tend to be high maintenance (you know the drill: I need a glass of water without ice and a piece of lemon on the side... and a separate glass of just ice...a paper napkin instead of "this,"...blah blah blah).

But what about at a fish counter? I ordered one thing, it cost $11. The guy cut the fish, he wrapped it up, and he handed it to me. What am I tipping him for, not spitting on it first?

20% would be $2.20, right? Then, you round it up or down depending on whether you liked the person – whether they really seemed like they wanted to help you, right? If you put aside the fact that you’re standing at a fish counter where you shouldn’t even be debating this issue for a split second because it’s ridiculous to tip at a fish counter, a $2 tip seems really cheap, especially if you're using a credit card, right? And, since the guy was pretty much demanding it, I certainly didn’t want to be cheap because the store is only a mile and a half away from my house and what if he remembers me.  Right?

If I gave him $3 for doing this, and everyone behind me did about the same, and then you add that to what he might be paid by his employer, could he be making about $46 per hour for slicing a piece of fish and wrapping it up? The guy could not have been more than 18 years old.

So, what if I figured the fair thing to do would be to tip him based on the time it took him to serve me, versus tipping on the value of my purchase? The entire transaction was finished in less than 5 minutes. Let’s say he makes about $9 per hour – so that would be the value of his time, correct? If he helped me for less than 5 minutes, that means I could probably fairly tip him about 75 cents and I bet I would hear him calling me an asshole under his breath as I walked away.

Hello? Why am I tipping the guy at the fish counter?

As I walked out the door I remembered I had to stop at the bank on the way home and then I had this terrible thought. What if I had to tip the bank teller? If I was depositing my paycheck, cashing a rebate, and making a mortgage payment, would I have to tip the teller on the amount of the entire transaction?

Where does this end?

I’ll tell you what, on Monday when I’m finished work, I’m marching into my boss’ office and I am demanding a tip.

Play Chuzzle!

I have a terrible confession to make. I have been absent from my beloved blog for almost two weeks and it is because I am an addict. I have treated my friends badly, neglected my work, forgotten to feed the dogs. My tea is cold by the time I remember it and in the last week or so, I've walked off with the laptop while it was still connected to the camera more than just a few times.

It all happened over Christmas when we were trying to entertain children and we discovered Chuzzle. It's not a drink or a drug, but it might as well be. It's a computer game and I can't stop. I mean it. I. Can't. Stop.

I might as well be handcuffed to my computer. And to think, it was just an innocent (and, in my defense, very successful) effort to entertain, primarily, a six year old. She went home Chuzzle-free however, and I am sitting here a week later glued to a computer game, considering taking up smoking to keep my hands otherwise occupied.

I also blame the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House because he was the one who found it and he showed me how to keep finding new trials of it until I finally downloaded a virus. You'd think that would have stopped me. But no. The infected laptop went flying under the couch somewhere and I'm now using my retired laptop, which is almost ten years old and weighs about 47 pounds.

Finally, I downloaded an official version of the game for about $10 after a frantic and risky internet search for a discount coupon. It's a good thing I purchased it so early in my Chuzzling career because I think if I had waited much longer, at this stage, someone could have charged me 100 times that amount and I would be stealing money from my neighbors to get it.

When I went back to work on Tuesday I almost cried and in a lame attempt to cheer me up, the Y Chromosome suggested that I take my laptop to work but to make sure I turned the sound off.

I didn't think that was funny at all. And it was very disrespectful too.

Apparently, Chuzzle has been around since 2005. Obviously, its remarkable ingenuity has been long recognized by far greater minds than mine. In case you haven't had the pleasure of acquainting yourself to it, allow me:



The display screen consists of 36 little chuzzles that sort of bounce around to a hip little drum beat. Don't ask me what chuzzles are -- they look like swishy fuzz balls and they're all different colors with big eyeballs that follow your curser. As you drag them around and group them by color, they explode and their eyes fly into a bottle that racks up points. (Who came up with that?) The game doesn't appear to have any rules, doesn't require any thoughtful strategy, and bonus points get awarded for no apparent reason whatsover. As you can imagine, under these conditions, I am astonishingly awesome at this game.

When I close my eyes, I see chuzzle imprints on my eyelids. When I get up in the morning, I immediately start thinking about when I can start playing Chuzzle again. I promise myself just one more game and four (fourty) of them later, it's midnight. I hear Chuzzle music in every advertising jingle and have considered loading it up on my i-Pod. I think I might even want to be a chuzzle when I grow up. My name is X and I am a chuzzle. No, wait, that would be for the 12-step program.


Seriously though, tonight is the last night I'm playing this game, I swear it.