ME: I’m just not sure these birthday party invitations are kidsy enough.
HE: And then what happens?
ME: [laughing] Good point.
HE: People show up in tuxedos and top hats expecting a dinner party?
He keeps me in check.
ME: I’m just not sure these birthday party invitations are kidsy enough.
HE: And then what happens?
ME: [laughing] Good point.
HE: People show up in tuxedos and top hats expecting a dinner party?
He keeps me in check.
So I have my Bible on my Kindle–I don’t even carry the big giant copy to church or Bible study with me anymore, because I have a Bible that fits in my purse. I can highlight it, take notes in it, search it, etc. Until there’s a Kindle version of the Thompson Chain Reference Bible (also wouldn’t mind a Nelson Study Bible), I’m happy with it. Oh, and it was free (I see they’re now charging $7.99 for it).
Yesterday morning, we were sitting in Bible class after worship, studying Revelation. I had my Kindle open to the passage we were studying, and I decided I wanted to make the font bigger. To increase the font size, you push the font button and then use the little clicker to scroll to the size you want. However, you use the same font button to turn on text-to-speech. Instead of scrolling to the sides, you scroll down and then click the clicker.
You can see where this is going. I went to make the font bigger, and I turned on text-to-speech instead (kind of a reflexive action, since I do this all the time and I hardly ever change the font size).
I realized what I had done before Spike even started talking.
And I panicked.
I know, because I do this all the time, that to turn it off, you simply hit the font button again, scroll down, and click. So naturally my first panicky instinct was to hit the power switch and try to turn it off. The screen saver came on, and of course, it read to me anyway.
“Sorry! Sorry! I tried to change the font size! Sorry!” Everyone was laughing, I was fumbling to turn it back on, then go to the font window. The preacher teaches the class, and he had to stop down and wait for me to turn it off. (He, too, was laughing at me.)
Did I mention that the last time I’d used text-to-speech, I was washing dishes and had it turned all the way up? But of course.
[Related: Serenity finally got her Kindle. Here's her review.]
Hey, so sorry about the absence. Like you noticed.
How was your Independence Day? Unless you were one of the 1215 airmen, Marines, sailors, and Soldiers who re-upped at the Al Faw Palace in Baghdad, it wasn’t nearly as good as mine (do you know how tingly I get simply knowing they did it at one of Saddam’s palaces?). Did any of you see a bald eagle, our national bird, on the nation’s birthday? I would say “me either,” except that I did, while floating down a river in the middle of the forested mountains. You wish you were me.
Oh my goodness, y’all, I can’t even put into words how much fun it was (but I’ll try). First off, I can’t believe that I was such a chicken about it before. The first time I hiked the Grand Canyon, I figured that hiking it was crazy enough (it is, a bit), and no way ever would I be insane enough to raft it or to ever raft any river, because that’s stupid and dangerous! I had canoed many times, but that just doesn’t have the scary factor that rafting has, for obvious reasons. I mean, canoeing can be really hard if you’re on the right river, but generally you’re only tipping over if you hit a tree or a log or something (done that).
Wow. So we drove up just past Horseshoe Bend to Cascade Raft & Kayak for our all-day rafting trip. The Cascade people are very nice, and the guides are great (well, I can’t really speak to all of them, but Eli was excellent). At the headquarters, they put us on a bus to take us to the North Fork of the Payette River, about a forty-five minute drive. Just driving up there is amazing. Since we were on the bus, we could see more than we could have seen had we been driving in the car; we could see down past the trees to the river and the miles and miles of Class V rapids that we passed. Breathtaking and a little unnerving, because you’re like, “Oh no! What if we miss a turn or something and accidentally end up on those rapids and die?” I assume I’m not the only one who had that reaction.
About half an hour into the drive, we stopped to pick up other people who were meeting us at Cascade (I think that’s where we stopped). There were three groups. One was a couple, one was a big family of several, and the other was a family of nine. While we were waiting for the family of nine to arrive, Frank and I sat on the bus and watched the people; we also fidgeted, because we couldn’t wait to get started. The big family of several was taking their sweet time getting themselves ready for the trip, but we later learned that the family of nine wasn’t there yet, so the severals knew we weren’t waiting on them. Now here’s something I hadn’t seen before: A man took off his shirt, and he wasn’t remotely Marky-Mark-like, so I mostly just put on my “ew” face and tried not to watch, but it was hard not to watch, because I was so fascinated by his behavior. The man took off his shirt, lathered himself up in sunscreen (sooooo much sunscreen), and then put his shirt back on. I don’t understand this, because where I come from, you put the sunscreen anywhere that isn’t covered by your clothes. I was still scratching my head and trying to figure that one out when he took off his shirt again. Rinse repeat. Lathered up all over again. Put his shirt back on. Rinse repeat. I don’t know if he was trying to turn his 15spf lotion into 45 or what, but that man applied sunscreen no fewer than three times to the same areas (which would be clothed). Finally, I said, “How much of that is he going to put on?” to no one in particular. The other couple still on the bus agreed that my question was valid, and one of the guides acknowledged the over-lathering. Human behavior is strange.
When the family of nine finally arrived, we got going. We were able to see parts of the river we would be rafting, and the guides kept us entertained with their corny joke-cracking. This is also when I learned that there were children on the bus. Children. The kind that scream and fuss and make lots of noise. I was not on board with this, because what if one of the loud teenage girls ended up on our raft? Srsly. This was a worse thought than taking a wrong turn at the Class Vs.
We got to the whatever point (drop point? enter the river point? get on raft point?), and we almost got smashed into by an impatient guy and his small child in a truck — impatient guy obviously not able to see the giant bus and trailer backing across the highway into a too-small parking lot. People were all kinds of rude in the lot, too. No, the river will disappear if you get into it before I do, so I’m going to be a total jerk about sharing this public parking lot and public river! Anyway, I, being a chick and paying customer, stood idly by watching the guides and a couple of the men unload the rafts, praying that we would be on an all-adults raft. I was so pleased when Eli called the three adult couples to his raft. But Eli was wearing shorts that said “Lost,” and, not wanting to end up on an island in the south Pacific with humidity and Others and toner monsters, I worried just a little.
Finally we were in the river. As I got braver and gained more trust in my life jacket, I scooted more and more off of the cushion on the inside of the raft and onto the outside of the raft, where you are supposed to sit. By the end of the day, I was actually comfortable sitting on the edge. Go me.
The first half of the trip was mostly calm. The majority of the time, we sat there with our paddles while Eli did all the work. He would tell us when to paddle and when to stop, and other than that, we sat watching the amazing scenery as we floated by. We didn’t see any wildlife on the ground (other than chipmunks), but we did see a bald eagle. In the wild. On Independence Day. Because we’re awesome. There were two or three rapids before lunch, a couple of Class IIs and one Class III, I think. Class IIs were fun, but I was ready for more. When we got to the Class III, I squealed in delight — so. much. fun. My brain started screaming inside my head, “I WAS SO BORN TO DO THIS!” Brain was having lots of fun. Apparently, Frank’s side of the raft got nailed on that rapid, because when we got to lunch, I noticed he was drenched head-to-toe, and I was only drenched waist-to-toe.
We stopped for lunch, and they even accommodated my diet. They feed you sandwiches halfway through the trip, but for me they had a salad, because Frank had told them I needed to be GF. It was basically one of those bag salads with iceberg lettuce and cabbage bits (I’m pretty sure they gave me the whole bag, because wow, that was a lot of lettuce), but they made sure to tell me more than once that I could add turkey and veggies from the sandwich fixin’s (which I did), and they sent me three different kinds of dressing, two of which I was able to eat, and I also ate some fruit. I’m not a fan of iceberg lettuce, but I didn’t care, because it was food, and I got to eat it. Oh, here’s a cutie-head moment for you: I took my digestive enzymes along, just in case I got glutened. I didn’t think about the effect that water has on gel caps that dissolve in water, so I was like, “Hey! I’ll stick these gel caps in my pocket, since my pocket is snug, and they won’t fall out! I’m so smart!” Only I didn’t say it out loud, so Frank wasn’t able to remind me that the gel caps would be melting as soon as I got wet. So we’re standing there, waiting for lunch to be served, and Frank asked what was on my shorts. Oh, it’s just water, I thought, but when I looked down, I saw that I had a huge painting of orange and brown all over my khaki-colored shorts. I said, “Oh. Um. I put my enzymes in my pocket before we left.” Frank just started laughing at me. It looks like something rusted in my pocket.
After lunch, we got back on the river, and I couldn’t wait for the next rapids. This leg seemed a little more full of the splashies, so I was giddy. We had a few more Class IIs, a small III, and a big III. The small III was actually more fun (I think it’s called Francois), because it lasts longer and gets all up in your face. The big III was a ton of fun, too — y’all will have to see the pictures of us going over that when we get them, and you won’t believe I did that.
After the last III, it’s all calm floatiness, and the guide does all the work. Frank and I had already decided we want to move on to the bigger rapids, the ones where you have to wear a helmet. I should probably wear one of those just walking on my two feet, so I’m thinking my helmet should come with a full faceguard or something more. Either way, bring it on.
The drive back was a nailbiter, because the girl driving the bus (also the photographer) was driving crazy scary. You know, left wheels over the center lines of the two-lane highway. Other cars would zoom closely by our bus, and she would be like, “Did you see that guy?” Um, did you see you? But she was nice and took good pictures of us, so whatevs.
My birthday is coming up (it’s the 19th, don’t you forget it!), and Frank has already asked me what I want. “Take me rafting again.” “Yeah, but what about a present?” “Take me rafting. That’s my present.” He still thinks he needs to buy me something I can hold in my hands, so I’m like, “Fine. Get me a TV show on DVD. We don’t watch enough of those. And take me rafting.”
I nearly killed myself in a tragic corkscrew accident this evening. And by “nearly killed myself,” I mean that I pinched a chunk of thumb so hard that I had a bloody circle outlining the chunk on my thumb as I searched the house for alcohol and bandages, whimpering pathetically all the while.
It’s not as bad as the big toe incident (not even in the ballpark) but it hurts nonetheless.
At least I got a kickin’ pasta sauce out of the deal.
The other day, I was leaving to go shopping, so I was already in a bad mood. I got dressed, got my coat on (and, um, I really need a real winter coat, I decided after yesterday’s walk downtown), put on the scarf and hat, had my car keys in my hand, and I was walking out the door. Then I realized I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I started looking for them. I looked in the normal spots — my TV tray on which my laptop sits, the loveseat, the cabinet next to my end of the loveseat, master bathroom counters, on my night stand, top drawer in the kitchen, on the counter above the top drawer in the kitchen, on top of the office furniture (aka Old Yeller), and just in case my head had been ensconced in my butt, I checked the coat closet. They were nowhere.
So I enlisted Frank’s help. He started looking in all the placed I’d already looked, because he’s used to me saying, “Where are my glasses?” so he knows where they usually turn up. While he was upstairs checking the bathroom and the nightstand, I happened to find them. They were hanging from the collar of my shirt. I called upstairs. “I found them!” Frank said, “You did? Where were they?” Surely he wants to know for future reference. “Come see.” He came downstairs and looked in the direction I was looking first, and then he looked back at me and started laughing when he saw them hanging from my shirt. “Well, I didn’t know I needed to look *on* you!”
I’m pretty sure this makes me an official dufus.
This is what my toe looked like when I decided to drop a bookcase on top of it a few weeks ago.
Nasty, right? The good news is it is healing very well. The smashed part of the nail eventually grew out enough I could cut it, and my meticulous cleaning of the wound has my toe almost back to normal. The skin around the top of the toe (several layers of which eventually came off) is healed up, and most of the bruise is gone. There is a little bit of bruise remaining under the top of the nail, but it looks like there will be no lasting damage from my little rampage. Yay!
Ok, so I wasn’t feeling well today. I half expected it, because even though we decided we’d reintroduce only healthy dairy products (and only gradually) into our diet, we went to Carino’s last night, and I had a most rich lemon cream wine sauce, of which I ate every single ounce.
Anyway, I figured I wouldn’t feel that well, and I was right. However, I have also missed my seizure meds two days in a row, because I forgot and then forgot and then Walgreens was closing early yesterday, so I missed four doses before today. I expected a headache from the combo of dairy and missed meds, I got a headache. Not a horrible migraine, just one of those dull ones that makes you want to do nothing all day and makes you want to never leave the couch.
I was proud of myself, though: I ran the dishwasher, ran the dryer (I think), straightened most of the downstairs (except the Christmas decorations, of which I’ve only packed two bins, and the Christmas tree, which goes out with the trash Friday), and put several things on the stairs for later transportation upstairs. Yes, I’ve been lazy over the holidays.
Anyway, Joe Foo’ and Denise were coming by to drop off my car, which they’d borrowed for the time they were in town, and then we were going to take them to the airport. I just felt kind of crappy, so I had already decided not to go to the airport.
Anyway, they came in for ten minutes or so before they left with my hubby (Denise was in serious need of a Rowdi fix, I think, because she sorely misses her own puppy). And before they arrived, I meant to check the downstairs powder room and make sure nothing was out of place, the toilet was clean, and the mirror didn’t sport water marks. Well. As you can imagine, I didn’t check the powder room (too busy lying on the couch and watching House M.D. DVDs), and frankly, they were just lucky I’d managed to put on a bra before they arrived. And right before they left, of course, Denise made a quick stop in the powder room.
You can imagine where this is going, right?
Well, I just happened to have a pair of sexy undies that had seen better days, and yesterday, I had pulled them out of the dryer, decided my relationship with them was over, and… yes. I had thrown them in the powder room trash can. The one I meant to check when I checked to see that nothing else in the powder room was out of place.
I don’t remember what Denise’s demeanor was when she came out of the powder room — I obviously was completely oblivious to the trashy panties (puns intended all over the place), because otherwise I would have run in there quickly to remove them, so I wasn’t looking for a specific reaction.
But yes, just now I went to use the powder room, and wouldn’t you know, the first item spotted when I walked into the powder room was that pair of preciously private undies, sitting proudly atop the rest of the trash. That’s when the horror struck and I tried to replay the day in my head.
We are definitely not used to having company.
Warning: This post contains graphic descriptions of a most heinous act of bloody stupidity. Do not read this while you are eating.
So last night I got mad at Frank because I wanted to play Wii golf and he’s bored with Wii golf, and I was of the opinion that he should just be thrilled that I wanted to play anything at all since I don’t even like video games. Anyway, I decided to act like a big baby to get my point across, instead of just telling him, because as y’all know, I’m a woman, and we don’t act rationally when we’re mad. So we were playing Wii bowling and I just sat on the couch and threw the ball rather than actually getting up and trying. Then Frank realized I was mad and apologized after he realized I was mad that he wasn’t just happy I wanted to play anything, blah blah blah. Well, I was completely retarded and instead of accepting his apology, I told him that I didn’t want to play anything with him.
So I got up and went over to the stairs, at the bottom of which there was a bookcase waiting to go upstairs. So I grabbed the bookcase and started dragging it up the stairs, even though it was heavy-ish. I kept dragging it, waiting for him to come help me, but not asking him to, because as was previously stated, I was crazy angry that he didn’t appreciate my willingness to play any game at all with him. Of course, he was saying things like (lazily), “Do you want some help?” because I was acting like a total child. And because of that whole child thing, I was like, “No! I don’t want your help!” Because you’re a dumbstoopidhead!
So when I got to the middle landing of the stairs, I shifted the bookcase to get it in front of the top half of the stairs so I could drag it straight up. But as I moved it over, my left big toe didn’t get out of the way in time, and I dropped that bookcase right on top of my toe. Boy, that hurt like a son of a gun. So this was when Frank said, “Do you need to go sit in a corner until you calm down?” or something patronizing like that. And then I looked down at my toe. The whole top part of the toe was bloody. Which, of course, made it hurt even more. So I said, “No! I don’t need to sit in a corner, because I just smashed my toe!” And I walked gingerly up the stairs to get to the master bathroom, lifting my poor beleaguered toe up so as not to drip blood on the rented carpet (that method didn’t work).
I got to the bathroom and shut the door most of the way so Frank wouldn’t hear me crying, because if he heard me crying, how could I be angry with him later for not hearing me cry and coming to my rescue? And as I dripped blood all over the tile (and I mean ALL over the tile), I realized just how much my toe hurt. Like. The. Dickens. And I just started wailing. I pretty much had no control over that. I tried not to be loud, but that apparently didn’t work, because when I started yelping like a chihuahua, I heard Rowdi start barking. And she was wooo-wooo-woooing loudly and apparently running halfway up the stairs (the other half having been blocked by the bookcase) to alert Daddy that Timmy was in much pain in the well. Of course, we’re spraying Rowdi in the face with the water bottle any time she barks so we can break her of that nasty habit (nothing else works), so while I was yip-yapping in the bathroom, Frank was dutifully stopping the dog from barking, not hearing my pain.
I soaked many wads of toilet paper with blood until I realized my toe was never going to stop bleeding, and I was going to bleed out, right there on the loverly tile in the bathroom — what a way to go. At least Frank would be comforted by my term life insurance.
I hadn’t unpacked the band-aids yet, but I knew they were in an opened box right next to the bathroom door, so I crawled over and grabbed the band-aids and pre-soaked alcohol swabs. I cleaned my toe several times with the alcohol swabs, but the reality was I was going to die from a toe bleed which just would not stop. Oh, plus the alcohol just made me yelp louder, because holy crap, y’all. Thank goodness they weren’t peroxide swabs, or I would have died from the pain of cleaning my toe.
Here lies SarahK.
Died from sheer pain trying to clean her toe.
Survived by a husband who knew she was crazy.
And a wet-faced barking dog.
It was hard (still is) to determine just how bad my toe was/is doing. I thought I had gashes on the bottom of the toe, but apparently that was just alcohol pain that engulfed my entire toe. I had a profusely bleeding gash on the front of the toe, between the nail and the knuckle — that sucker was all purple and just wouldn’t stop gushing. There was the slash between the big toe and second toe that bled but stopped quickly, and I noticed today that the continuance of the slash goes diagonally down the top of my foot for almost two inches. And then there’s the nail. I probably won’t know for a few days whether I’m going to lose part of the nail. Nor will I know if I kinda cut off the tip of my toe or not. See, there’s a big ol’ skin bubble (yummy!) on the top of the toe, connected to the smashed-in nail, and every time I try to move the skin to see if the tip of the toe is just held on by skin or a little bit of toe meat (muscle, I guess?), the pain is too excruciating to bear, so I give up and put the band-aid back on.
I bandaged up my foot and stopped crying long enough that I could walk down and check the carpet for a blood trail (there is one), and I saw Rowdi lying on the middle landing behind the bookcase, looking utterly worried. I sat down and petted her for a minute and talked loudly (for Frank’s benefit) about how at least she tried to help me (I was now angry at the fact that Frank hadn’t put on his super-sonic hearing and discerned that I was sobbing and wailing in the bathroom upstairs). But then she started sniffing at my toe, and since I was afraid she might bite it off because pit bull mixes love the taste of human flesh, I pulled back from her and went upstairs. Frank said something, I don’t remember what, and I just yelled at him that my toe had been smashed to bits and he didn’t care if I died. Or something like that. Then I went back to the bathroom and decided I should get in the shower.
I heard Frank following me upstairs, so I locked the bathroom door. Again, I wanted to be able to unleash my full wrath on him as a ghost later (since I would shortly be dying). I gingerly pulled off all the bandages (there were four) and was just about to undress when I heard Frank outside the bathroom door saying something. “What?” said I in my pained yet still fuming voice. I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I opened the door and then turned around for the shower. I got neckid (believe me, if you’re picturing this, it wasn’t sexy, as I was covered in tears and half of my own blood, so make that little adjustment in your heads — better yet, don’t picture anything but my nasty toe) and got in the shower while big dumbstoopidhead started talking to me. I don’t remember any specifics except that I was crying and telling him how he should have listened to the bad barking dog to see if I was okay and how come he didn’t even bother to check on me knowing how upset I was and after I’d said I’d smashed my toe. He said something about figuring it was best to just let me simmah down before he tried to talk to me. And I was like, I’m not a dog who you just walk and run around in circles until she works out all her energy and aggression and why do you think I’m a dog and you’re such a butthead and go away go away go away and no Guitar Hero tonight or tomorrow! (I rethought my position on all of the above, and he’s actually playing GH right now.)
Pain does not make me more coherent, nor does it make my crazy dissipate. So then as I sat on the floor in the shower, waiting for the blood and the pain to stop, Frank brought in the big guns — Minerva. He started holding her by her front paws and making her dance for me, and then tap on the glass, then asked if I wanted Minerva to come in with me. Somewhere along in there, my toe stopped bleeding quite so copiously, and I finally got out of the shower. Of course, that was peppered throughout with, “Go away! Go away! You leave me alone!” though the intensity of my insistences quickly subsided to become vain repetitions of, “Go away. You go. Leave me alone…” It’s the dancing kitty thing — I’m a sucker for it!
Anyway, after I was out of the shower, we apologized to each other. He for not realizing he was being selfish before I went crazy (he tried to do this while I was in the shower, but I didn’t listen), and me for going crazy and smashing my toe in a fit of outrageous stupidity. I bandaged up my toe again, this time with only three bandages, and we got dressed for bed. My crazy had tired Frank out so much that he didn’t even want to read a comic book before going to sleep. I was fine for reading half a chapter of Harry Potter OTP, though.
My toe is not much better today. I’m down to two bandages, but the bleeding starts back up every time I take them off, and the nail/skin part still hurts too badly to try to figure out if the big piggy is just barely hanging on.
wRitErsbLock emailed me this morning, and in my reply to her, I said that I had smashed my toe to bits. “Why?” “Because I was mad at Frank.” Who, by the way, finished moving the bookcase into the reading room while I was in the shower. When I thanked him for doing that, he was like, “Of course I finished moving it. It’s not heavy.” RARR. Try dropping it on your toe and see if you feel the same way.
I slept several hours this afternoon in the chair in the reading room. I think all the blood loss and dehydration from crying really wiped out all of my energy. I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to ever wear a left shoe again.
When you make your totally awesome potato soup, make sure you don’t throw in the contents of just any can that has a picture of coconuts on the front. A whole can of creme of coconut will make your soup inedible.
So we were at the Space Center last Friday for the World Space Expo, and Frank and I were walking by the model of the International Space Station.
FRANK J.: What are those things hanging down from the Space Station?
SARAHK: I don’t know. Maybe they’re solar panels.
SARAHK: No, those are solar panels up above, I think. I don’t know, maybe they’re wind panels.
FRANK J.: Wind panels. Okay, what would be the purpose of wind panels in space?
SARAHK: Um… I don’t know. To help move it along.
FRANK J.: Is there wind in space?
SARAHK: Um… maybe. Maybe it can catch a draft from the Space Shuttle when it flies by.
FRANK J.: Is that likely?
SARAHK: I don’t know.
FRANK J.: What’s in space?
SARAHK: A vacuum.
FRANK J.: Uh-huh…
SARAHK: And there’s no wind in a vacuum?
FRANK J.: Very good!
SARAHK: Well, you don’t know that. Have you ever been in one and tested that?
FRANK J.: What do you need for wind?
SARAHK: Stuff… and air…
Then the conversation moved to how Mythbusters should do a show on that scene from Armageddon where the ISS blows up, and there’s a big outward explosion. And Frank became the cutie head:
FRANK J.: Yeah, how would they do that experiment?
SARAHK: Uh. They can create a vacuum and explode a model inside the vacuum.
FRANK J.: Oh yeah, they have the equipment for that.
So. What are those things hanging down? Best I can tell from looking at the interactive model on NASA’s website, they’re radiator panels.
We actually went and did something today. We went to KSC with wRitErsbLock and sherlock for the World Space Expo. We had a great time. The event tents were full of fun exhibits and giveaways (yay for giveaways!) and educational programs. I do love the educational programs at the Space Center.
Anyway, since we were actually out at the KSC, and because there were a million children and a thousand teenagers for much of the day (I was thinking, yay Friday, no crowds! I didn’t take field trips into consideration, ack!), making the Space Center semi-crowded, I was sure all day that this was Saturday.
At one point, we were walking through the shop at the Astronaut Hall of Fame (we finally went! For the first time ever!), and Frank asked the time. The other three of us grabbed for our cell phones (of course). And I said, “Ooh, hey! Tonight we get to set our clocks back!” Frank reminded me that today is Friday. After we got home this evening, I mentioned that we have church tomorrow morning; this time I actually caught myself and said, “Oh yeah, it’s Friday!” So now I feel like I’ve gained an entire Saturday! Not to mention the hour that we do get tomorrow night. Yay!
So my Amazon boxes arrived today. In one box were twelve bags of pretzels. Another box, Carrie Underwood. The third box was supposed to be thirty-six bars of Clif Nectar Bars, eighteen in one flavor, eighteen in another. Well, I took the two boxes of bars out of the box and left the box sitting there. And then I wrote this post, in which I said that I had two twelve-packs of Clifs. After I wrote the post, I realized I hadn’t checked the quantity on the boxes, so I went to check and make sure there were twelve in each box. There were nine.
So I went to Amazon, followed a million links to figure out how to contact customer service. I didn’t find any phone numbers, so I submitted a ticket. While I was link-jumping through Amazon, I realized I had ordered eighteen-pack boxes. So I had only half my order! I was a little annoyed, but since we have Prime, I wasn’t worried about getting the other half of the order soon enough.
Well, in the ticket, they don’t let you give any comments. You get to choose exchange or refund. I went with exchange, because there were no other options, and I couldn’t just send them an email saying, “Please just ship one box of nine for each flavor, and then you don’t have to pay for me to ship anything back.” Went through the whole process, and at the end, I was told to ship back the order I received with the shipping label provided and that customer service would be contacting me regarding shipment of the new order.
It took a while for customer service to email me, and while I was waiting, I was clearing out the boxes I’d received today. I picked up the Clif box and noticed it was heavy. Uh-oh. I opened it, and there was another box of nine for each flavor. I had received the entire order. I felt like such a butthead. Well, customer service still hadn’t responded about the next shipment. When they finally did, they told me that they were shipping thirty-six bars again. Also, due to health reasons, they didn’t want me to return the incorrect items (which, it turns out, were not incorrect). I could just dispose of those as I wished (in my belly). Oh, and the email was sent from an email address that could not receive replies.
I went back to my account to see what I could do. I mean, thirty-six bars? Roughly $50 (I got $10 off for buying two eighteen-packs). I felt sooo bad. I went to the orders that customer service had started. I was able to cancel one of the flavors, but the other one was being prepared for shipment and could not be canceled. In my cancellation of the first flavor, I was able to put comments, and I told them that I was really sorry about the mixup and had found the missing bars and to please bill me for the one flavor that was already being shipped. I have no idea if they will, but I guess it’s the best I can do.
Anyway, it’s official: I’m a dolt.
You know that little black cherry soda incident I had this weekend? I do. And apparently the car does. The gear shift is becoming more and more difficult to move… Not good.
Frank and I took a load of stuff over to storage this afternoon. When we were pulling out, I was driving, so I said, “Hey, why don’t you use this bag and sack up the trash around your feet.” We’re very clean, you see. So Frank sacked up a ton of trash, took all the empty bottles and cans, and yay! I had room for my last black cherry soda. Then Frank said, “I’m going to take this roll of paper towels inside, too.” I said, “Yeah, we don’t need them in here.” Of course, you know that means I would shortly need one.
I dropped Frank off at home so he wouldn’t have to go on the ridiculous number of errands I had planned. I’m so considerate.
Later, I was taking the exit to go to one of the errand places, and at the same time, I was taking a drink of my coke (they’re all coke). Well, I was wearing my wrist brace, because my wrist has just decided to stay perpetually wonky — if I bend it at all, the pain is not fun. And the wrist brace kinda keeps me from having a firm grip on anything as big as a coke can (I have enough trouble with pencils). So I had the left hand steering me onto the exit ramp (the exits around here don’t get clogged, so I was pretty much the only person on the ramp, endangering no one with my one-handed driving), and in my right hand was the coke, and it just slipped right through my little fingertips on its way back to the cupholder. And the drink didn’t just bounce around a little and spill a bit of liquid… Oh no. The full can landed upside-down on top of the gear shift console and spewed out half its contents onto the area around the shifter.
After I helplessly watched the coke seep under the shifter console in massive quantity (I was stopped at the light by this time), I called Frank.
SARAHK: Hey sweetie. Today was a really bad day to take the roll of paper towels out of the car.
FRANK J.: Why’s that?
SARAHK: I just spilled half my cherry soda all over the gear shift and the space below it where the
P/R/D/N/1/2P/R/N/D/1/2 are. And I looked around, and no paper towels with which to sop.
FRANK J. [laughing at me]: BAD sweetie. Is the car still running ok?
SARAHK: Yeah, it hasn’t shorted out or stopped driving so far.
FRANK J.: You’ll have to clean it up later… you know, with water so it’s not sticky.
SARAHK: Yeah, I know I need to use water.
The rest of my coke was, of course, flatter than a SarahK off gluten, but I did make it through the rest of my errands with little incident. Wild Oats was out of the Black Cherry soda, though. I sad.
Every now and then, I do stupid things. Nooooo, you say. It’s not possible! But you’re the Lovely and Talented SarahK! I’m also a teeny bit clumsy, airheaded, and goofy. You know, from time to time. And sometimes my ditziness means that I do something that terrifies me — just so I can make sure my heart can pump at ten times its normal speed.
Occasionally, I like to scare myself by setting off the old ADT home security system. There are certain windows and doors that set off the system without that little beeping warning that lets me know that I have less than a minute to enter the code and turn off the alarm. And believe me, I have opened every one of the no-warning entrances at some point or another. When it was actually cool enough this spring to keep the windows and back door open, I decided to get up early one morning and throw open the windows and let the breeze wake me. Aaaand I started with one of the windows that the ADT alarm system has set on panic mode. It scared the pee out of me, but y’all should have seen Frank. He was still asleep, and suddenly the home security system was wailing. I just started yelling my apologies while I bolted for the code panel. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m an idiot!” Thing is, I think he just sat up (quickly, eyes wide open), heard me yelling about my stupidity, and went back to sleep.
Sometimes I throw open the patio door so the kitties can go play on the patio. They see me unlocking the door and come running. “Yay! Play time!” and then they jump as high as I do when the alarm starts blaring.
I’m a cutie-head.
I made brownies a couple of weeks ago. The awesome gluten-free ones that we love so much. Yes, well, in my haste to get the yummy things in the oven, I read “3/4 cups water,” measured it out, and popped the brownies in the oven.
They came out all spongey. Not so good. As soon as I saw all the holes in the brownies and tasted the first one, I wondered what I could have done wrong… then I remembered. I had used a 2-cup measuring cup and filled that baby up to 1 3/4 cups. Yeah. I’m smirt. And Frank teased me mercilessly about the brownies until we finally threw out about 3/4 of the batch. Ick.
I made them again night before last, and y’all just don’t know how many times I checked the package, then the measuring cup, then the package again.
They were so much better this time.
Here’s how long it took me to do the finances last week: So long that I totally forgot that I’d already paid the credit card the day before the due date, so I went online the day after the due date and paid it again (this card takes a few days to update transactions, or surely I would have noticed it had already been paid). And here’s the kicker: the first payment was on time, but since I was paying the day after the due date the second time, I felt like I should make this one an “Express Payment,” which costs $15 to do.
I am so smart I even surprise myself sometimes.
SARAHK: What’s three plus six? Nine?
FRANK J.: What did you just ask me?
FRANK J.: Did you just ask me what’s three plus six?
SARAHK: I was actually thinking, what’s March plus six months, which is September. Shut up.
FRANK J.: Here, let me go back to kindergarten and ask five-year-old Frank that question.
SARAHK: Shut up.
Hey, guess what happened today? We were on time somewhere! Nine minutes early to the Piera house, actually. We went for food, movie, and grocery shopping with the Pieras and D (is he semi-anonymous too?). Hey, it’s way funner than it sounds. We told them we would be there at 2 p.m., and we arrived at 1:51 (for you mathematically inept, I did the math; I’m nice, right?). We were so proud. They were so shocked. “First time for everything.” Whatever, Snidey McSniderson.
We took a quick trip inside to see the water closet that wRitErsbLock recently remodeled. She’s right, the interweb pictures don’t do it justice. I finally told her this after I saw it in person. I thought it looked like a crypt online; it looks much friendlier in person — not at all like someone might shove you in it and nail it shut!
So first things second, we went to Chipotle (because first we stopped for actual first things — gasoline). Oh, wait. At the gas station, Frank said he would get out and pump the gas, and I said I would go ask wRitErsbLock where Chipotle was (still is). We quickly got sidetracked.
WRITERSBLOCK: How did this happen?
WB [motioning wildly toward Frank]: How did you get him to do that? You were driving, and he is pumping the gas! [Sherlock] never pumps the gas!
SHERLOCK: I pump gas. Into my own car.
SARAHK: Oh. Frank always does that. It’s the man’s job. I didn’t even have to ask.
WB: She didn’t even have to ask!
SHERLOCK [examining wb's hands]: Yep. She’s got two.
SARAHK: So have I. But Frank’s got manners. And chivalry. Some things are just the man’s job. He opens my doors, too. [WB looking at sherlock in disdain, sherlock looking all snobbish about that.]
SHERLOCK: Nope. She’s perfectly capable.
D: You get mad at me if I do that for you.
WB: Yes, but [sherlock] is my husband!
Ok, so we went onto Chipotle. WB apparently took exception at the fact that I don’t drive like the crazy Florida drivers; I actually leave four or five cars’ lengths between the car in front of me and my own car. Call the Insanity Wagon, y’all! I forgot to ask if she also took exception to my pulling over for the emergency vehicle that wanted by. Picky, picky.
So here’s how stupid I am. I know that Chipotle is a safe place to eat, and we don’t have them here, and I can eat everything except the tortillas. So I was happily set to order my burrito bol. And I was being all smart. They wear gloves, right? I know that I’m sensitive to cross-contamination, so I asked the girl making the bol if she would please change her gloves before making my bol. She agreed right away, and I quickly added that I’m allergic to the tortillas, and she gave me a funny look, and I didn’t pursue or explain, I just moved on, carefully watching as she almost dredged the new gloves across the tortillas as she reached for my bol. I would have asked for even newer gloves, but she missed the tortillas by *that much*. Did I mention my stupidity? Ok, so girl #1 got my bol started, and after the rice and beans, she passed my bol along to girl #2. I blindly told girl #2 which salsas I would like, and please give me cheese and guacamole. Did I ask girl #2 to change her gloves? No. Didn’t even think about it until after grocery shopping several hours later when my stomach was rumbling full-steam, I had a migraine going, and I was having seizures. Then I thought back and realized that duh, I forgot about girl #2, and what does she do? She actually folds everyone’s burritos with her gloved fingers and gets the gloves all over those tortillas, and yes, she grabbed all my little cheeses with those same fingers. And another thing? I shouldn’t have even had the cheese, because I’m off cheese for another week. Good job, me. Everyone must change gloves, except the lady who only touches the bottom of my cup and my debit card. Duh. I was even really careful that when I washed my hands, I accidentally opened the bathroom door after without using a paper towel to open it, so I washed my hands again, not so much because I was freaked about the germs this time — my freaking about the gluten has far overpowered my freaking about the germs. I was worried someone didn’t wash their hands and had gluten on them and touched the door handle.
When we were done eating, it was time to roll to the movies, in the same parking lot. Thank goodness, because parking was a beast. Probably because we were going to see Transformers, and there were a bunch of Deceptacons or Autobots there in disguise. I have no idea if I spelled those correctly, don’t care. On the way across the parking lot, or maybe this was at Chipotle when D got up to go get a drink or something. Don’t remember. Brain addled from gluten.
Alright. One time, a long time ago, I teased writersblock in an email or something. I don’t even remember the context, all I remember is that it was one sentence. “You know, you could invite us to do something with just y’all sometime.”
WRITERSBLOCK: So are you offended that D came with us?
SARAHK: What? No. Why would I be? [Note that when we made plans the other day to go to the movie, I always knew that D was going.]
WRITERSBLOCK: Well, you lectured me that one time about how we never invite youse guys to do anything with just us, how there are always other people.
SARAHK: What? When did I lecture you?
WRITERSBLOCK: You said that one time, “You could invite us to do something with just y’all sometime.”
SARAHK: Wait, wait, wait. So one sentence… one measly little sentence… that’s lecturing?
WB [laughing at her inane self]: Yes.
SARAHK: Ohhhhh. So much is becoming clear now!
Oh, believe you me, I let her have it, then and throughout the day. Verily, as she would say.
SARAHK: My, [writersblock], you’re looking thin. “SarahK is always lecturing me about my weight!”
WB: Yep, just another way for her to lecture me about gluten.
SARAHK: And when I asked the girl at Chipotle to change her gloves? I guess I was lecturing the poor girl about gluten!
WB: I had to listen to SarahK give a ten-minute lecture to the Chipotle girl about the evils of gluten!
SARAHK: Hey, those are cool shoes! “SarahK is always lecturing me about the shoes I wear.”
SARAHK: Hey, in college you must have had it really easy. You could get through a two-hour lecture in like two minutes!
Poor WB, she’s probably feeling lectured through the interwebz right now.
So then we went to see Transformers. It was more than meets the eye! For reals. I felt so dragged to the movie. Every time Frank has mentioned it, I’ve been thinking, yeah, whatever, it’ll get me a couple of chick flicks. Don’t get me wrong. You know how I love my dumb action flicks. But I wasn’t looking forward to a movie based on a cartoon robot show that I barely remember at all and am not sure I ever watched. I only even knew who Optimus Prime was because J.D. and Turk painted him on the Turks’ nursery wall in Scrubs. Anyway, I loved the movie. It was funny, I liked the plot, I liked the characters. It was PG-13, and I didn’t notice the language being too bad. I did notice a few words and was really surprised when I got home and looked it up that I missed a few (I’m not complaining that I missed them, I’m annoyed with myself). But for a three-hour movie to be as clean as it was is pretty rare these days. Actually, my biggest complaints? The cheesy Michael Bay scene at the end (was somewhat inevitable and which actually was a lot less cheesy than I would have expected had I remembered going in that this was a Michael Bay film) and… the action! I mean, the military action was great, the shooting was good, the driving was fun, but the robot cage matches were too hard to follow. With all the cinema tricks where you’re supposed to feel like you’re at the Chevy Show, and the part of the bot that just got torn off has rolled right over your head, OH NO! IS IT GONNA HIT YOU?! and closeups of the gigantic robot fists banging into each other… Well, I never could tell which battle I was watching, who was fighting whom, and which robot just got smashed. So the dumb action part of the dumb action flick wasn’t the best part. But overall, great movie, I’d pay another $9.50 to see it again in the theater. Yes. It was $9.50 for a matinee.
After the movie, we went to the Kwik-E-Mart. To turn left into the K-E-M, WB crossed a solid white line (illegal in Texas, I assume it’s also illegal here) with a Sheriff’s deputy in the next lane. I was not about to break the law right in front of the deputy, so I continued past the light and went past the Kwik-E-Mart and made a U-ey. I explained this to WB, the whole illegal activities in front of law officers thing. Not a big fan of illegal activities to begin with, mind you. But a single white line? I’m not gonna lie, I’ve crossed them before. Inside and outside the Kwik-E-Mart, WB and I ran around taking pictures of everything while sherlock, Frank, and D found their Homer supplies. Frank got a Squishee and a couple cans of Buzz Cola.
After the Kwik-E-Mart, we trekked waaaaay up to Winter Park to Whole Foods Market, because I had looked up online today whether Orlando has one, and Orlando has one. And I was determined. On the way there, WB crossed a single white line, and I moved over into the new lane behind her, but I waited until the line was dashed, however briefly, before I made my move. My phone rang, and Frank answered and put it on speaker.
WRITERSBLOCK: So you won’t cross a white line to turn left, but on I-4, you have no problem doing it?
SARAHK: First of all, I crossed when the line was dashed, not solid. It was solid, then dashed, then solid again. Second of all, there’s no Sheriff’s deputy sitting right next to me on I-4.
WB: Is this Park? [PROFANITY] This isn’t where I want to exit. I’m distracted by the pho–! *click* [this is where she hung up on me]
SARAHK: I don’t know why she doesn’t get the concept of dashed lines versus dotted and officer sitting there versus no officer sitting there.
She called me back again to tell me when we were approaching Whole Foods, and…
SARAHK: HEY! YO! JUST BECAUSE I’M NOT IN YOUR CAR DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T HEAR YOU THROUGH THE PHONE!
WB: Sorry. See you in a minute.
I wouldn’t even bring it up, because she did apologize, but I thought my line was decent enough to blog that part of the conversation.
We shopped. Frank yawned a lot. We shopped. WB, sherlock, and D looked bored. I was in gluten-free heaven. We spent over $100. I got so many different flours and gluten-free mixes that you either can’t get at Wild Oats here or is at least a dollar cheaper there. Plus more terra chips, a few other things, some organic pears and avocados. A couple of Larabars, which are the same price there as on Amazon, and a case is cheaper than Amazon. WB and I were impressed that they have a whole fridge of gluten-free baked goods. Oh! Also, I got 365-brand all-natural black cherry coke (and by coke, I mean caffeine free, color-free soda made with pure cane sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup) and the same brand, same yada yada ginger ale. Frank pointed at the giant wall-art wheat hanging near the ceiling on the high walls and asked if I’m offended by that. Well, if wheat weren’t so in the Bible or I were a liberal, yeah, I suppose I would be.
We finally left after long hugs and I miss yous and came home to a very bad dog who got a faceful of cat claws right away for her bad behavior. And yay me. I put away groceries and wrote this super-long post just for y’all… all with my mild migraine, regrowing nerve pain, annoying seizures, and NOT mild bloating.
Dudes. I’m not even proofreading this, though. Sorry.
I went to take a bunch of stuff to storage this afternoon, and I got to the building I needed to enter. Parked, got out of the car, headed toward the back so I could unload my stuff…
BIG FAT GIANT NASTY PUTRID (DEAD) PALMETTO BUG / COCKROACH THE SIZE OF A
JAPANESE TITANUS GIGANTEUS BEETLE! RIGHT! IN! MY! PATH! (If I’da had my camera, y’all would be appalled, APPALLED right now and jumping back from your computer screens in sheer terror.) UPDATE: (Just so y’all know, it was almost three inches long and about an INCH FAT.)
So what did I do? I got back in the car, of course. Quickly. Locked the doors, because you know those monstrously giant dead palmetto bugs, they’re really good at working those door handles. Seatbelted up, turned the car back on, drove around a building to get pretty much back to the same spot, except one building behind where I had started. Because see, I can go in the next building (we’re in air conditioned storage), walk through a corridor, open a door, walk through two more corridors and end up at my unit. Sure, it’s a bit farther, but there are no BIG FAT GIANT NASTY PUTRID (DEAD) PALMETTO BUGS / COCKROACHES THE SIZE OF TITANUS GIGANTEUS BEETLES! RIGHT! IN! MY! PATH! if I take that route. So it was a no-brainer for SarahK: Big Fat Chicken.
Oh, get this, ladies. I’m sure y’all can relate. It’s so funny, because Frank and I are both total slobs. But closets? I want those totally organized, or I get really stressed out. Storage units? You should see how awesomely I have organized this thing. So yesterday I sent Frank over there with a 2-drawer file cabinet. Short little thing, doesn’t take up much space. I opened the unit today, and there it was, looking like he’d just haphazardly tossed it on top of our kitchen table legs. And there was all this unused floor space (because of my awesome organizational skills). But the file cabinet was teetering haphazardly. I rolled my eyes and moved it to a better spot.
Frank *says* it must have fallen when he picked up some boxes, because he’s sure he put it on solid ground. (Yeah.)
So when I was leaving, I had to shut the main door that I was using (not the easy access door, but the door *away* from the BIG FAT GIANT NASTY PUTRID (DEAD) PALMETTO BUG / COCKROACH THE SIZE OF A TITANUS GIGANTEUS BEETLE! RIGHT! IN! MY! PATH!). Well. The little rope that holds the door open? Had a visitor. A little spider had decided to take up residence right where I would have had to grab the rope to take it off the door handle. So I spent the next two or three minutes using my foot, grabbing the rope at weird spots, nudging the door, and practically holding my leg over my head trying to get the stupid rope to let go of the door handle so I did not have to go anywhere near that dumb spider. And I’m perfectly fine with spiders. They used to crawl on my walls when I lived in Amarillo and had my window cracked for the swamp cooler, and I just got used to them. I’m fine seeing them. But I’m not okay with them being near my hands, and it is definitely Frank’s job to handle up on them when they’re in the house.
And you know what? I’m sure the manager was watching me on the surveillance cameras the whole time and laughing his butt off at me.
UPDATE: Patriot Xeno pointed out in the comments that I had my terminology wrong. See, I went to camp in West Texas where we saw every possible kind of beetle imaginable, and “they” always just told us that these beetles of all varieties were Japanese beetles. So anyway, now I’ve been schooled, in the comments (not in email where I would have preferred, *ahem*, and I’m pretty sure at least the body structure I was trying to convey.
Cardboard cuts hurt at least as much as paper cuts.
That is all.
In defense of our nation’s youth (24), I didn’t know anything about politics until I was getting divorced at 27. I just knew that R was better than D in most cases. Sizzle only knows what I tell her about politics. And, as you will read, what she reads in magazines. Bless her heart.
SIZZLE: I’d say I’m not a liberal, and I’m also not, you know, a…
SARAHK: I think she means conservative.
SIZZLE: I’m probably like in the middle kinda or something.
SARAHK: No she’s not, she doesn’t know enough about politics to even be in the middle. Knowing what I know about you, you would probably fall libertarianish.
SARAHK: Oh yeah. You don’t know what that means.
SIZZLE: Yes I do!
SARAHK: I didn’t say that you try to understand but just can’t comprehend something so complex, I said that you just don’t know what that means.
SIZZLE: Well, it’s because I just don’t really…
SARAHK: I know, you don’t care.
SIZZLE: Oh. Okay.
SARAHK: You have to be for a strong national defense, or you can’t be my sister.
SIZZLE: I’m for a strong national defense, fine. Patronizing tone!
SARAHK: Ok, so you’re gonna vote for Fred Thompson then. [Oh, and before you Giuliani peeps start up with me, lemme just say I don't know how you can be for a strong national defense and a weak self-defense. I just don't. And if you buy all his politicking about "Well gun grabbing was good for New York, but it wouldn't be good for America, so of course I wouldn't take away America's guns," please line up, I will sell you some lovely pyrite-laden genie bottles at a very inexpensive price.]
SARAHK: [Looking at Frank to see if he heard that. I told her she was on speakerphone. I always inform about speakerphone.]
SIZZLE: [Laughing.] Just kidding. But you know what? Do you know why I know who Fred Thompson is? They had an article about him in Rolling Stone–
SARAHK: Rolling STONE? I can’t even imagine what they had to say.
SIZZLE: Just that he was running for president. But don’t worry, I don’t even vote.
SARAHK: Ok, I can’t even talk to you anymore. Ever again.
SIZZLE: A’ight. Bye.
SIZZLE: Fine, I’ll vote, whatever.
Moving on from politics.
SARAHK: Oh, so Rachel Lucas was talking about bad fashion trends and doughy girls who wear their shirts so tight over their fat rolls that you can pinch the dough right through the shirt, right? [And um, Rachel, maybe they got fat from their gluten challenges, and none of their t-shirts fit anymore because they don't want to buy new shirts because the ones they have will fit again after the gluten challenges are over!]
SIZZLE: Uh huh.
SARAHK: And she was also talking about those tattoos like that one you have.
SIZZLE: Uh huh.
SARAHK: And she called them something. And I decided I can’t wait to use it on you. Are you ready?
SIZZLE: What? Tramp stamps?
SIZZLE: Yeah, everyone at work gives me a hard time about it. Jessi, your tramp stamp is showing, blah blah blah.
SARAHK: You let people SEE it?
SIZZLE: Not on purpose!
When we get to Texas, she’s grounded. Forever.
Monday I was talking to my dad, and I said, “Hey, Frank’s favorite columnist, Jonah Goldberg, quoted Frank a lot in his syndicated column this week. It was cool, and Frank was excited about it. It was about Fred Thompson.” I gave him a few more details. Spidade, aka Spizzle Dizzle, was only half-listening to me, because he was at a convenience store, and… well, lemme just play back the conversation for you.
SARAHK: Hey, Frank’s favorite columnist, Jonah Goldberg, quoted Frank a lot in his syndicated column this week. It was cool, and Frank was excited about it. It was about Fred Thompson.
SPIDADE: Oh yeah? That’s great. Hey, um, I’m sitting here in a convenience store parking lot [I guess he does his daily reading there?], and there’s this woman, and she is uh-reee-uhlly skanky.
SARAHK: She’s a prostitute.
SPIDADE: Well, I don’t know about that. But she’s uh-reee-uhlly skanky, and oh no, she’s walking over to my truck.
SARAHK: She wants to offer you her services.
SPIDADE [laughing]: Well, the answer is no!
SARAHK: Or maybe she wants to purchase yours.
SPIDADE [laughing]: Well, the answer there is definitely no. I don’t offer services.
SARAHK: I don’t know. You did tell me you have a goatee now.
SPIDADE [laughing]: Yes, and I look good. But she is most definitely skanky. And now I don’t know how I can get inside the store without having to talk to her.
SARAHK [I suppose I could have told him the obvious solution--be on the phone with your daughter when you walk by her, and motion to her that, hey, sorry, I'm on the phone, but what's the fun in that? Or optionally, bug spray.]: What’s she doing?
SPIDADE: Just standing at my window. I think she’s gonna ask me for money when I get out of the truck.
SARAHK: No she’s not, dad. She’s totally a whore. She wants to make a transaction.
SPIDADE: Oh brother. Well, I’m gonna have to go, because someone else is calling.
SARAHK: Good luck. Stay strong.
Or something like that. Oh, and earlier on, we had talked politics and how we’re both voting for Fred Thompson, so he’d better run, or we’re gonna never get over it!
So yesterday, Spidade called me. Now, I already knew that IMAO had been getting some traffic yesterday from newspapers that ran Jonah Goldberg’s column, so when he mentioned Jonah Goldberg, I knew why he was calling.
SPIDADE: Hey, do you know who Jonah Goldberg is? He’s a conservative columnist?
SARAHK: Yeah, that’s the columnist I was telling you about yesterday who quoted Frank in his column this week.
SPIDADE: Oh yeah? Hey, he has a column in the [Fort Worth] Star-Telegram…
SARAHK: Oh, he does? Do you see Frank’s quotes in there?
SPIDADE: I haven’t read the whole thing yet. I wanted to read you something from it.
SARAHK: Is it about Fred Thompson?
SPIDADE: Yeah. And about Osama bin Laden?
SARAHK: Uh huh. Dad, he’s quoting Frank.
SPIDADE: Oh, really?
SARAHK: Yes. Do you remember yesterday when I told you that Frank’s favorite columnist quoted him in his column this week?
SPIDADE: Oh yeah. Well I haven’t gotten past those little square things yet. What are those little square things called? [This from the man who can do the Sunday NYT crossword puzzle, ok?]
SARAHK: Bullet points.
SPIDADE: Yeah. I haven’t gotten past the bullet points yet.
SARAHK: Yeah, the bullet points? Frank wrote those.
SPIDADE: Oh, he did? My favorite one is about how Fred Thompson left the Senate in 2003 and Harry Reid hasn’t stopped wetting his pants.
SARAHK: Yeah, that one’s funny. I like the one where Fred Thompson stood on the southern border and glared at Mexico, and there was no illegal immigration for a month. He has a whole category of these on his blog and posts a new one every day. Say, do you see where it says IMAO down there below the bullet points?
SPIDADE: Yep, yep.
SARAHK: Yeah, that’s your son-in-law. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Frank J.?
SPIDADE: Oh yeah! He sounds familiar. Well, I hadn’t gotten that far yet. I just thought these were really funny, and I knew you would like them. And actually, when I saw “IMAO”, I thought it said “LMAO”, as in “laughing my pinkytoe off.” [He really said pinkytoe. He's down with the freaky-cool mountaineer musings lingo, yo. Haha.]
SARAHK: Dad, I told you about this yesterday. You don’t remember that conversation?
SPIDADE: Yeah, it sounds familiar.
SARAHK: Hey monkeyface. My dad is calling to read to me from Jonah Goldberg’s article in the Star-Telegram today. He’s reading me these really funny facts about Fred Thompson. He didn’t even know he was quoting you to me.
Frank thought that was hilarious. He’s been telling all his friends.
So y’all see where I get it. My own dad was calling to quote my husband to me from a newspaper article, when I’d told him about this the day before.
Oh, and Spizzle Dizzle called a few minutes ago.
SARAHK: Oh, hey. I’m blogging about how you called and quoted Frank to me yesterday.
SPIDADE: Oh, you are, are you?
SARAHK: Yeah. But you know what? I remembered why you didn’t remember my telling you about it.
SPIDADE: Why’s that?
SARAHK: Because when I was telling you, you had the hooker standing outside your truck waiting to solicit you, and you were trying to figure out an escape route.
SPIDADE: Oh yeah! That’s right. Well, I’ll tell you what. [He is a Texan, yes?] I stayed on the phone with you long enough that she finally gave up and walked away.
SARAHK: Oh good. I should have suggested it. [But what fun would that be?]
SPIDADE: You can be proud of yourself that you kept me on the phone long enough that she finally gave up on me.
SARAHK: I am, kinda. Hey, was she wearing legwarmers?
SARAHK: Was she wearing legwarmers? Just wondering. When I picture skanky hookers, they’re always wearing legwarmers and purple leotards and miniskirts.
SPIDADE: I… tried not to notice.
He’s no fun!
Has my blogging turned into just me writing conversations?
Such like that? No, nobody said so, I just noticed it when I was writing yet another one earlier. Anyway, I don’t suppose that’s gonna change any time soon. Maybe I’ll vary my style occasionally. Like this:
A minute ago, Frank called to me from the bathroom. “Sweetie, can you bring me some paper towels? I need to dry off.” He had been cleaning the paint stick. I don’t make him dry off with paper towels; I mean, I hate laundry, but not that much.
“Sure, I’ll be right there.” So I rushed through the bedroom toward the bathroom, and halfway through the bedroom, I realized that I had forgotten the paper towels. Sounds just like me. I spun on my heel without a word and started laughing as I rushed right back out.
Behind me I heard, “Good hustle.” Hey, I tried.
Regarding last night… huh.
Yeah. I went back and read what I wrote at 1:30 or so this morning. Koo-koo! Sorry about that. If I were a post deleter, this is one of those posts I would either delete or revise to make myself look less insane. Unfortunate thing (for you folks) is that I am a yeah-I-wrote-that-crapper, not a deleter. I’ve deleted one or two posts over the three plus years I’ve blogged, but I had good reason each time, and other people were involved. I’ve never deleted a post that embarrassed only me. At least I can’t remember doing such.
Even my mom thinks I’m Britney or Whitney.
So. Bikermommy called me this morning.
BIKERMOMMY: How are you? [You know. Like when people ask in that tone because they know you're to the point of using skillets for mirrors instead of the real thing because you just can't bear to see the true visage because wow, check out that stress acne you're sporting!]
SARAHK: Oh, I’m good, how are you? [all casual-like]
BIKERMOMMY: I’m good. I… read your blog this morning.
SARAHK: Oh. Yeah, I read that too. [Very fast] I didn’t sleep night before last, and yesterday I only got a 2-hour nap, and on gluten, power naps just don’t work for me the way they do off-gluten [no, I'm not crazy, that's true], so yeah, I was just rambling. I’m fine. Seriously. Every part of my body hurts, but I’m totally ok. I’m not even stressed or anything.
BIKERMOMMY: And you shouldn’t be. Did you get the livingroom painted?
SARAHK: Most of it is primed. But it’s fine, it’s totally fine. Right now I’m making sure the room is cleared out so the furniture people will have a place to put the new furniture.
BIKERMOMMY: And yeah, just put plastic over the furniture when you paint, no big deal.
SARAHK: Yep. Not worried about it.
So yeah. I think Bikermommy was a tad worried that I was going a little bonkers. I’m totally fine, I was just rambling and so stinking tired. And Rowdi was so bad yesterday, that stupid dumb escaping dog; that just added to the tiresomeness of painting. More on that later. Bad dog. But when I was talking to Bikermommy, she asked about the drug that makes me dopey and incoherent at times, though I only notice that side effect when I’m completely exhausted.
SARAHK: [long, incoherent, rambling sentence with a lot of words only half-finished]
BIKERMOMMY: Are you still on the Topamax?
SARAHK: Yes. But you know what? It’s because I have hardly slept. When I am this tired and on the Topamax, yes, I am completely incoherent. But right now I am on gluten and not having migraines, so I’m not getting off the Topamax. After my biopsy, I’ll start getting off Topamax, but for now, I’m staying on.
BIKERMOMMY: No, that’s not what I meant.
SARAHK: Uh-huh. It’s because I sound completely crazy and can’t talk. I know.
BIKERMOMMY: No, I mean because you don’t feel well. [Suuuure.]
SARAHK: Well, I’m not having headaches, it’s just my whole body hurts. We’re doing a lot of physical work. A lot of moving, a lot of painting, a lot of [incoherent who knows].
BIKEY: Oh, I thought you were having headaches.
SARAHK: Not that many. I get twinges, and they are migraines, but the Topamax keeps them from going full-blown and lasting for days.
BIKEY: Oh, I thought maybe you were off the Topamax because you didn’t feel well.
SARAHK: [Very fast] No, I feel awful because I’m eating gluten and we’re doing all this work, and I’m so tired, and I’ll be so glad when we get notified that the COBRA payment has been received so I can call the doctor and ask him if we can please move the biopsy up any earlier, because I’ll be so glad to be done with this evil crap forever, but then again, I feel like I should give it the full three months to work, because what if the biopsy is negative, and then I’ll always wonder if maybe I should have waited just two or three more weeks.
BIKEY: Yeah, that’s true. When is it?
SARAHK: June 15th, and I can’t wait, and oh. [New subject.]
I was all over the place. I’m sure she felt so much better about my mental status after we hung up. By the end she was all, “Well, um, ok, love you, talk to you later, go take a nap, don’t worry about anything!”
What a perfect day to have a talk with your son about the rest of his life.
Here’s what happened with Rowdi yesterday, whom we should have dubbed Bullet McSprinty when we got her from the shelter 15 months ago. Not that I’m counting the months. 15.5 months. Frank took Rowdi for a very long walk, because the preacher’s son was coming over to help with everything. Oh, and this is funny. We had made arrangements on Sunday with Alcazar the preacher’s son (more on the name later, that’s not his real name) to come yesterday morning. Told his mom, told his dad, they all knew he was coming to work and to learn; by the way, we decided to pay him $12 an hour plus a little extra for gas since he’s driving 45 minutes each way. Well, he drops off his sisters at school, so he could be leaving his area of town at 8:30, and he said he’d come right after that and stay until around 3 when he needed to leave for his other official job, which was good for Frank and me, because that made us be on a schedule and set goals and me stay up all night. Ok, so Alcazar called at 9 to tell us that he was going to have breakfast with his dad and would be here a little later. That’s fine, we’ll be here all day. He got to our house at 11:25; it turns out that the preacher, we’ll call him Brother A for anonymity’s sake, picked yesterday morning to have the come-to-Jesus talk with Alcazar about how he really needs to be serious about college and not just chase chicks. Hahaha. I thought it was funny that Alcazar totally got one of the big life talks, because those are so uncomfortable, and don’t we all delight when kids get those talks? But at the same time I was like, he doesn’t start school until September, and our furniture gets delivered tomorrow. But I still thought it was stinking funny, all the dadding that his dad did yesterday. So yeah, Alcazar was only here for 3.5 hours. Oh, and I fed him lunch before he left, and I was listing off quick stuff I could make (daylight was a-wasting), and Alcazar gasped in delight when I said Totino’s pizza. Ha! Good kid.
Winner: Bad Dog of the Year
Back to Rowdi. Frank tired out Rowdi good, because she was going to meet a new guest, and she was pretty good when Alcazar arrived. She greeted him and sniffed all over him, and she only tried to jump up to about his hip level, and that only twice or thrice before she finally got the point that mommy is not ok with that. He petted her, and then she totally leaned up against his legs and rolled over on her back and asked impolitely for him to please rub her belly forever and ever amen. (Later he asked what kind of dog she is. “Oh, she’s a shepherd / pit bull / lab mix or something. We don’t really know.” His eyes got huge like “oh crap! she’s a pit bull!” when we said pit bull, but then he remembered that he’d already met her and was totally cool with her.) Well. Rowdi decided she wanted to show off her mad sprinting powers to her new friend. Frank and Alcazar carried my cedar chest out to my car, and I called her to me, and she came and stood calmly on the carpet until we were all out the door, never once went onto the tile of the entryway. Very good dog, very sneaky dog who just wanted to catch us off guard. Next item of furniture: Queen Anne chair. She went to the door, and I called her to me on the carpet. She did not come, and I said, like I always do, “No, Rowdi, you have to stay inside.” Normally my saying this is enough. She knows that this means she is not going outside, so she doesn’t even try to escape. But she was like, “Forget y’all! I want Alcazar to see how fast I can run!” So the first chance she had to get between the chair, Alcazar, and the door, her sprinty little butt was wriggling past, and all I saw was muscles and that dumb little stub she has where her tail should be.
Retrieval: Closing the door and pretending we didn’t want her back didn’t work. I watched out the window, and she was like, “I just sprinted, so I need to poo!” Totally disinterested in the fact that we were disinterested in her. Dangit. Frank never could find the poo next to that neighbor’s mailbox. I hope they don’t find it on their shoes. Next trick: Bag of biscuits. She never gets biscuits anymore, because of the food allergies thing, so I shook the biscuits loud and proud, good bait, embarrassed though I was. Not interested. I hate that female dog sometimes. So Frank started walking down the street, calling her. She was just soooo happily sniffing everything she could get that stupid sniffer on. She’d be the world’s best drug dog, I swear. I walked around the back of the houses toward the gator pond, because I figured the last time it took this long to get her back, she went for a swim. I was all calm, just waiting for her to come my way so I could calmly entice her with biscuits and then ground her sorry butt. Talk to me all you want about “you never want to punish them when they come back to you, because then they think they’re being punished for coming to you and it makes them less likely to come when you call in the future.” Bullcrap. Maybe with your dog, not with this princess. She always knows exactly what she’s being grounded for. She does something bad, and if I can’t catch her and then finally just give up and call her and wait for her to come to me? I ground her. She comes to me now more than ever. Unless she’s outside, because y’all, she’s only ever been off-leash outside of the house four times now, and they were not planned excursions. Dog spa doesn’t count. No back yard, nowhere to train her, and we have nosy neighbors that would have her impounded by animal control in five seconds if we regularly practiced offleashiness with her. These people have nothing better to do. Ok, so every single yip-yap dog in the neighborhood (besides Rowdi, the dogs next door, and the lab across the street, they’re pretty much all yippers and yappers) was screaming “Mommy!” at the sight of her. Over and over, too, like the seagulls screaming “Mine! Mine! Mine!” on Finding Nemo. So now we had a quietly sniffing mutt running all over the place and a bunch of attack-watch-yippers interrupting The View and Fox News. Rowdi ran right into the garage of some of the yippy dogs, and Frank was able to corner her there. She didn’t actually run to the yippy dogs, she just ran over and started sniffing one of their dog beds. The dogs themselves were behind a gated-off section in the garage with their owner, barking mad, and Rowdi was completely ignoring them so she could sniff their sleeping spots. Frank and Alcazar walked into the garage to grab the dog, and the owner jumped out from behind the gate and started walking toward Frank, Alcazar, and Rowdi, glaring at Frank. Frank said, “Sorry. Dog got away from us,” grabbed Rowdi by the collar, and started walking her out of the garage and back home. The owner of the house didn’t even respond. He didn’t say, “KEEP YOUR EVIL VICIOUS DOG OUT OF MY GARAGE!” or “No problem, dogs are hard to catch when they get away from you, especially when they are faster than a speeding bullet. Dogs will be dogs, and she obviously didn’t want to hurt me or my dogs,” or “I’M REPORTING YOU AND YOUR DOG TO THE HOA, AND THEN I’M CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL!” Just continued to glare at Frank without acknowledging that Frank had spoken. I asked Frank if it was Neighbor Bill, and he said it was quite possible, because the guy was just weird and totally could have been Neighbor Bill.
Whatever. Anyway, I was about a block behind the guys and the female dog, so I was yelling, “As soon as you get her in the house, you GROUND HER!” And he did, and when I got inside the house, she knew exactly what she had done wrong. And today, when Frank and I were taking boxes and things to the car, we had the door open to get the boxes out, and Rowdi looked hopeful, and I looked at the dog, and I said, “Don’t even think about it, or you are so grounded.” She hung her head so low that her nose was almost on the tile, and she did not even think about trying to escape the pit of despair. Maybe the dog spa should have tried alpha rolling her. I’m thinking it would have taken about four times before she finally got it.
Alcazar’s name: No sleep + Topamax, right? Ok, so Alcazar’s name is really Alister. And every time I said his name before he got to the house, I would cycle through the names. And here’s how it went yesterday when I told Alister why I am officially changing his name to Alcazar.
SARAHK: Hey, I can’t remember your name today. You know I know your name. But every time I try to come up with it today, first I think Alcatraz. No idea why.
ALISTER: Alcatraz? What?
SARAHK: I know! I’m insane. Then I go to Alcazar. That’s because he’s on my soap opera, not that I watch soap operas [you can't tell a PK that you watch soap operas, because PKs tell their mamas or their sisters, and then the whole church knows!]. Anyway.
FRANK J.: Alcazar. [He says that in a sinister way every time he hears it, because he thinks it's hilarious and would make a good alien name, just like Lipitor.]
SARAHK: And then finally I get to Alister. But you know how when your grama is trying to say your name, she cycles through all the names of your aunts and uncles first and then finally gets to your name? [Not necessarily his grama, but both of mine are like that. I'm always Karen, Sandra, Terry, Wanda, Carol, Linda, and Kyle.]
ALCAZAR: [laughing at how truly craaaazy I am] Yeah.
SARAHK: Yeah, that’s how I feel today. So I’m sorry, but you’re now Alcazar.
ALCAZAR: Wh… That’s… um… Ok.
You know he was thinking, “White people are crazy. Alcazar? What the heck?”
More of that stupid bad dog.
So Rowdi also chewed a hole in one of my kickboxing gloves. Yep, she’s never chewed up anything that wasn’t one of her toys or Sydney’s mice, but she picked yesterday to decide to be bad bad bad. And she decided that in order to eat one of Sydney’s new mice, she would have to be super-secretive about it, because if we catch her, she gets grounded and rolled, and I will crank those pit bull jaws open, stick my fist in her mouth, and pull out that mouse if she doesn’t swallow it before I get to her. Of course, usually she just knows what’s best and drops it as soon as I say to. But I accidentally bought catnip-filled mice (I try not to, because I don’t want my cats any wackier than normal–they’re crazy enough), and Rowdi wants them badly. So badly. So she’s been finding them, slinking off with them, holding them between her paws, and quietly licking / nibbling them so that we don’t catch her. She got two of them yesterday, but I totally caught her the second time when she had barely gotten started.
Yeah, she spent about eight hours in her crate yesterday. I’m starting to feel a lot better about leaving her crated up in the house for an entire day when we go to Disney or the Space Center. Not joking. She stays in there 12 hours at night anyway. As long as we give her a long walk beforehand, yeah, why should she keep us from having fun?
I’m mean to Brian the Sailor because I’m SICK IN THE HEAD!
Then at the end of a very looooooong day, I got an awesome comment from Brian the Sailor, nice guy, Navy man himself, friend, etc. Oh, and he’s blogging at Pereiraville because this one time, wRitErsbLock made a comment on one of my posts, and Brian thought she was insulting me, and he came back at her in the comments to my defense, and I emailed him to tell him that she is my friend and was not insulting me… long story short, they became friends, and he blogs with her now. Isn’t that cute? Yes. So Brian left this comment at IMAO on my post about how I accidentally hung up on the Navy vet calling for money.
I’m drying my eyes, here.
I read that: “Wah, wah, wah. SarahK is always whining. What a crybaby.”
I’m surprised Frank lets you crosspost here. He’s supposed to be the funny one.
I read that: “I’m surprised Frank lets you crosspost here. You’re not even funny. He’s the funny one.”
Girl, you’re getting your comic chops down!
I read that: “Girl, you’re not funny, and you’re bringing the readers down. You get less funny by the day.”
I wouldn’t worry so much about the Navy call. They’ll call back.
I read that: “Quit your worrying about the Navy call, Miss Worrypants. They’ll call back.”
Yes, I’m a complete dimwit. So I sent Brian a very ugly email. Boy, am I glad I didn’t fully embarrass myself by responding in the IMAO comments where everyone would see what I wrote. So I’ll post it here.
um, if you didn’t enjoy the post, which i thought was hilarious and was really meant to highlight our funny bickering and my bad timing (and didn’t i say at the very beginning that i was still going to say NO? we’re not donating right now to any charities other than church, and if we were, we would research and pick out our own charities to donate to, we wouldn’t be donating based on a phone call.), you feel free to refrain from commenting. i don’t understand the purpose of negative comments. and he lets me crosspost at IMAO because last TV season proved that my AI and 24 blogging generated an extra 1500 hits a day in traffic. and there’s no LETTING me crosspost. i read him something that i’m writing, or he reads it on my blog after i’ve posted it, and he says, “hey, you should put that on IMAO.” there have also been times when i’ve tried only posting my TV stuff on my own blog, and he’s like, what’s going on? why didn’t you post that on IMAO?
And he’s still speaking to me! Editor’s note: I think it was actually more like 1000 hits last TV season, and I don’t think I’m bringing in anything this season. Brian responded.
“any questions?” Yes, Sarah. Did you actually read what I said? That post was absolutely hilarious. The only reason I was wondering why Frank was letting you post is because you generate more belly laughs than him. Hence the compliment which was posted. Love, Brian
I still got LOVE from him after being a total gritch like that! What is wrong with that guy? I emailed him again and again explaining how I’m such a terd, and Frank’s response to the whole situation.
Frank and I had a giant laugh at this and hope you are laughing at how stupid I am too. Of course Frank’s like, “He bought 6 books! You can’t be mean to him!” Actually, you bought 7, but I didn’t correct him. I said, “I know who Brian the Sailor is! He blogs on Rachel’s blog now! We’re friends! So when I got this mean, nasty comment, I was just like, what the heck? Why so mean?” And I am crying laughing so hard at how I took absolutely every sentence exactly the opposite of the way you meant it. I chalk it up to being a woman on no sleep… Actually, the first thing Frank said was, “You have to blog that.” And when I read everything that you wrote in your comment and then my response, he was laughing so much by the end of it. He’s like, “You’re CRAZY!”
Brian told me it’s just one of those things to write off and laugh about, but I corrected him and told him it’s one of those things to write about and laugh off. Pretty good, huh?
Furniture delivery: Some men are dense.
Oh. The furniture people came today, and when the guy walked in and saw the ladder and the primed walls, he asked if we were painting. Why, yes we are. We wanted to have it all done before the furniture got here, but whatever. Then he told us if we would like for them to leave the plastic on the furniture, because it is all kinds of covered in heavy, thick plastic and cardboard for shipping, and they can just leave that on for us. “Oh yes, that would be awesome!” And it is way better than paper-thin plastic dropcloths, and the cats can’t scratch through these plastic covers without significant effort. I was so happy with the furniture delivery people. And so sad for the one guy who twice hit his head on the chandelier over the new sitting area.
Now we have motivation, because we can’t uncover and sit on our new couches until we finish painting this room. Not that we weren’t motivated before, but yay! I can’t wait to use the furniture! And the color looks awesome in here and with the decorations! Score! One thing about the delivery guys though. They picked the wrong person to ask about age.
SARAHK: [to Frank] We’re clear that the ottoman is mine, right?
FRANK J.: Yeah, sure, whatever.
FURNITURE GUY: Are y’all married?
SARAHK: Yeah. I just wanted him to know that I claim it for purposes of use.
FG: Yeah, usually the boss does that. [HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That is not how things are!]
SARAHK: Oh, he’s totally the head of the household. I just want that ottoman.
FG: How long have y’all been married?
SARAHK: Almost two years.
FG: Really? Wow. He looks like a little kid! [Frank hates it when people say that. Hates it.]
SARAHK: He’s almost 28. [And totally in the room!]
FG: Yeah, you just look way too young to be married. You look like you’re 17 or something. [Frank looked utterly unamused and went into the kitchen to pour more coffee.]
FRANK J.: Yeah, add 11 years to that.
SARAHK: Um, I’ll have you know that when I haven’t just gotten out of bed and, you know, I’ve showered [in the last month], I look about 22. So it’s not just him. I look young too.
FG: Nah, you look old enough to get married, but he looks like a little kid. [It's pathetic when you are begging people to tell you how young you look, and then they still just deny it to your face. Ratface.]
SARAHK: Yeah, you know, guys don’t really love hearing that. Women do, though.
FG: [Now there's that look of comprehension I've been waiting for. You're lucky y'all got a tip after all.] Oh, yeah, I see. You’re right, you look young too. [And I can tell you mean it.]
Prepare yourselves, people. We have some of the most adorable animal pictures coming your way soon. I found the camera.
TMI below the fold.
I’m a huge Caller ID lover. It’s the greatest creation since Fred Thompson’s DNA. And before we got a digital phone, we didn’t have it, so I basically never answered the phone; everything went straight to voicemail. Frank did not understand this.
FRANK J.: The phone is ringing; why don’t you answer it?
SARAHK: BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW IF IT’S SAFE!
Then we got a digital phone after months of me needling him about cheaper phone bills.
SARAHK: Nyah nyah nyah. $40 a month for just call waiting? That’s craaaaaazy!
FRANK J.: You’re crazy.
SARAHK: THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT! THE DIGITAL PHONE IS $20 CHEAPER, AND WE GET ALL THE FEATURES!
FRANK J.: WILL IT SHUT YOU UP?
FRANK J.: MAYBE’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME! LET’S SWITCH TO [THE DIGITAL PHONE]!
SARAHK: Yay Caller ID!
Frank still didn’t get why I was so happy with Caller ID. He was just glad it shut me up, somewhat. I still griped when he answered the phone.
SARAHK: Who is it on the phone?
FRANK J.: Um… 800 Service.
SARAHK: Then why are you about to answer it?
FRANK J.: Because the phone’s ringing.
SARAHK: Do you know anyone named 800 Service? Is that some relative I haven’t met?
FRANK J.: No, but what if it’s important?
SARAHK: You didn’t win the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. We’ve never entered. So it’s either the Florida Blood Centers, a sales call, a call from the Republican party asking for donations, and until they get their act together, the answer there is a definitive NO, it’s someone else asking for money, or it’s the Men’s Wearhouse trying to collect on that phony bill that we don’t owe them. So… why did we get Caller ID if you’re still just gonna answer the phone without looking?
FRANK J.: To shut you up.
SARAHK: It’ll never happen. And if it’s someone who knows you and needs to talk to you, they have your cell phone number.
Still he didn’t get it. Until now. See, now he’s home all the time, and the phone rings about ten times a day, and it’s always either 800 Service, someone named Courthouse Square who always hangs up on us and seems incredibly surprised if we answer, or my mom. We answer when my mom calls, because we like her, and if we don’t answer, she’ll just call my cell phone anyway.
FRANK J.: I can’t believe it! It’s 800 Service again!
SARAHK: They want your blood. [Most times, 800 Service leaves a message saying that they would love for Frank to donate his super-awesome blood.]
FRANK J.: I can’t believe they call so many times!
SARAHK: Now you know why I never answered the phone and wanted caller ID. I was home all day with the phone ringing off the hook and never knew who it was.
Well. Now Frank is completely on board with Caller ID. But occasionally we’ll get a very persistent caller. For a while it was Men’s Wearhouse. We got fed up, called their American number, used the “h” word with them (harassment), and funny thing — we just got a $0 statement and a letter stating that all derogatory references have been removed from our credit report. The blood bank is another persistent one, but we understand, because Frank is a good donor and has a good blood type (I can’t donate because of my epilepsy stigma, even though I’ve never had a convulsion or anything close to one), and with the tornadoes here last year, they really need him.
Today I decided to do something different and answer the phone. 800 Service has been calling all week and not leaving messages. The blood suckers always leave automated messages, and Men’s Wearhouse is taken care of, so I wanted to know who was calling. Frank walked in the door just as this happened, so he caught the tail end of my horrible timing issue. Here’s how it went. Oh, just know this: I talked to my sister for a long time last night and subsequently left the phone off the charger.
Ring! 800 Service. Again. Ok, fine. I’ll just answer it.
800S: Hello there! How are you doing today?
SARAHK: I’m good. How are you?
800S: I’m blessed, thank you for asking! I’m such and such from the Navy Veterans, and I have to tell you, it’s great to talk to you, everyone I’ve talked to today has been very rude, and you sound so nice–
SARAHK: [MY PHONE WENT DEAD.] NO! COME BACK!
FRANK J.: What happened?
SARAHK: The phone went dead, and the Navy vet was saying that everyone’s been rude to him all day, and he’s so blessed, and I sound so nice, and then the phone went dead, and he’s gonna THINK I HUNG UP ON HIM! NO!
FRANK J. [laughing]: Who was that? What did the Caller ID say?
SARAHK: 800 Service!
FRANK J. [laughing]: Why did you answer it?
SARAHK: Because I was going to tell whoever it was to stop harassing us! But it was the Navy Vets, and I would have told him no in a nice way, but now I can’t because he won’t call back, because he thinks I hung up on him.
FRANK J.: You have to blog that.
Frank is always getting onto me for leaving the phone off the charger, and now that Navy Vet is going to think I HUNG UP ON HIM!
I’m so ashamed.
The other night I was at Publix, and I was in a hurry. It was twenty minutes to closing, so I was on a mission. I flew down the aisles. Flew! I can do that when I know I have to get through fast. So there I was, flying. Glided down the pasta aisle… Strange, a bald man in his early forties, clearly a professional, clearly just glanced at my gigantic wedding ring, just winked flirtatiously at me. Jerk! Seriously, I hate it when men flirt with me. As I walked up toward the cashier, one of the little Publix checker boys was walking by and smiled at me like I was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
Yeah, I was wearing my painting pants and a workout tshirt. I looked haaaaawt.
Anyway, I got to checkout, and the manager was actually sacking groceries for the customer in front of me. I didn’t know it was the manager at the time; I was paying attention only to my cart full of groceries that I was now quickly emptying onto the belt. I hate making stores stay open past closing for me, so I had a goal to be out before 9 p.m. When the customer in front of me left, the manager walked off behind him and out the front door to the parking lot. The cashier girl, who looked to me like she was in her early twenties, mumbled something under her breath after the manager walked away. She was still smiling, but mumbling all the same.
Cashier Girl greeted me and then said something about The Manager. Then she said, “Well, nobody likes their manager, right?”
I just smiled, because I really had no idea what she was talking about. I was thinking about my groceries and the great sale on the Bounty Select-a-Size paper towels Publix was having and the strange flirty looks I was getting from men in my paint clothes. In fact, I had just finished examining myself to make sure I wasn’t sporting gobs of food down the front of my clothes or anything like that, because what was the big deal about me that night? So when Cashier Girl asked about liking managers, I had barely heard her and only smiled.
Then Cashier Girl asked me, “So do you like your manager?”
Now I was scanning my debit card, and she looked old enough to be watching comedies on NBC, and I have been eating gluten, so I wasn’t thinking straight (yes, I’m blaming the evil gluten)… So I replied.
“Well, I’m a housewife, so I’m sleeping with my manager…”
“So yeah, I like him pretty well.” I smiled and made eye contact, loading the cart with the groceries she was bagging, no manager around to do it for her. She smiled back. UPDATE: I forgot this part. After she smiled back, I said, “But in general, it is not a good idea to sleep with your manager.” She said, “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Well, what about when you were working? Did you like your managers then?”
“Some of them, yes. Some of them, no. Depended on the boss.” I liked my managers at the place here in Melbourne. And in Fort Worth at the accounting firm.
“I think I’d like that job, being a housewife. My mom is a housewife.” Your mom. Oh precious. “And now she’s a housemom. She has a seven-month-old baby now and stays home with her. I think I would love to do that when I have kids.”
“Yeah, me too. I love being a housewife and plan to stay home with the kids when we have them.”
“My mom actually waited seventeen years after me before having my little sister.”
That took a minute to settle in. Then I thought, Oh my NO! She’s seventeen. I made a sex joke to a seventeen-year-old!
I’m going straight to hell.
As we know, I can’t recall words as easily as I did when I wasn’t on Topamax, so a lot of times the word will be right there, floating just out of reach of my mind’s eye, and I can’t focus it into a real word. Last night, as I was writing my American Idol results show recap (which includes lengthy flashbacks to each contestant’s performance Tuesday night since I didn’t write up the Tuesday show), I turned and asked Frank for vocabulary help, as I occasionally do when I can’t come up with a word.
SARAHK: What’s a good word for… not verbal but…
FRANK J.: Nonverbal?
SARAHK: No. Not spoken… physical… not verbal [I repeat myself in these situations.]
FRANK J.: Unspoken?
SARAHK: No. Sweetie, if I wanted a word that I could come up with myself, I wouldn’t ask you for help. [We both start laughing.]
FRANK J.: [quoting Scrubs] Thanks. I was going to say mop.
The Scrubs janitor reference sent me into a laughing fit that I couldn’t stop for a few minutes. If you don’t remember the episode, it begins something like this. JD walks into the hospital, and Janitor is sitting just inside the hospital looking sad.
JD: What’s wrong.
JANITOR: I don’t know. I’m just feeling kind of… what’s the word?
JANITOR: Yes. Sad. I’m so dumb that I couldn’t come up with the word sad. I was going to say mop. I’m feeling mop.
The Janitor spends the rest of the episode acting completely stupid–trying to eat soup with a fork, etc. One of the funniest episodes.
Oh, I ended up looking it up on reference.com. Tacit was the word I was looking for. Not mop.
ANNOUNCER: There is Mike Modano’s jersey flying in the wind.
SARAHK: * happy sigh *
ANNOUNCER: And the St. Louis Blues… anchored by the passing of Doug Weight.
SARAHK: * GASP *
FRANK J.: What? [He hadn't heard the news.]
SARAHK: [Getting my hockey head screwed on straight.] A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! They said the Blues are anchored by the passing of Little Dougy Weight. I thought they meant he died.
Well the announcer said it so gravely. And really, who could blame him? Frank and I both had a mega-laugh at my expense.
In other news, I have freakishly strong legs for a girl. And those furniture coasters are every bit as awesome as Bikermommy says they are. (So there’s no confusion as there was when Frank and I hunted all over Lowe’s looking for them, he not knowing just what we were looking for–they’re what you put furniture on to move it, not what you put on furniture so you can set down your drink. He was looking for something completely different than what I was.)
Spidade called me today to ask what exactly I called to tell him on my way to worship yesterday morning. First he asked if I was late to worship. Yes. Because I forgot to set the clocks forward? No, we remembered that; it’s just we didn’t wake up. So late to Bible class, or late to worship? Oh, about a half hour late to worship. Missed Bible class completely. New meds, Dad, new meds. Today I slept till 11, so it’s not a selective church-days thing, either. Anyway…
SPIDADE: What exactly did you call to tell me on your way to being late to worship?
SARAHK: Hmm. I don’t remember. Did I call you?
SPIDADE: Well, you left me a message. It was five minutes long.
SARAHK: Oh goodness. Don’t tell me.
SPIDADE: Yes, I got the end of you singing one song and the entirety of “Jesus Take the Wheel”. And oh yes. I listened to the entire message. [Do I need to even tell y'all that he laughed at me as he told me this?]
SARAHK: Oooh. I remember singing that very badly. Was it bad? I was listening to her CD on the way to church and singing along. That’s what I do when I’m in the car, I practice for my next karaoke night.
SPIDADE: Well, at one point it sounded like you were almost mocking the song. [Thanks for the support, Spidade.]
SARAHK: Yes, I remember it was on the way to church, and you probably heard the end of “Before He Cheats” first. [Great song for preparing for worship, right?]
SPIDADE: Yeah, I think that is what it was.
SARAHK: And I’m actually planning to write a parody of that song, so I was probably working on some of my material. [I can't tell y'all what it's about. But Frank came up with it, I'm going to write it, and Spidade thought it was funny.]
SPIDADE: Oh, yeah? You’re going to be the next Weird Al Yankovic, huh?
SARAHK: Yes, that’s me. I’ll go by Weird Alice. Yeah, after that, I remember singing “Jesus Take the Wheel”, and at one point, I ran out of air on a long note [I hadn't spoken all morning, and these two songs were the first utterings out of my lungs, come on!], so I started to rewind, taking note that I would need a much bigger breath for that phrase, and then I just decided to start the whole song over.
SPIDADE: Yeah, I remember that. I remember at one point you started the song over.
SARAHK: Well I hope it got better after I started it over, because if not, I should just never sing again. Because I think I was actually singing along the second time, big breaths and whatnot.
SPIDADE: Yeah, it was pretty good the second time through. But man, at the top of your lungs. So Frank’s ears must have been splitting open enclosed in the car like that.
SARAHK: Actually, Frank felt pretty bad yesterday, had one of those 24-hour things, so he didn’t go. And when I’m in the car alone, I sing at the top of my lungs. [Doesn't everybody?]
SPIDADE: But you don’t remember calling me?
SARAHK: No. You know what it is? Ever since I almost got myself killed on the highway last week, I’m all hands-free, all the time. So I had my hands-free thing plugged in in case the phone rang, and when that’s plugged in, all I have to do is say someone’s name for it to auto-dial them, apparently. [I wonder whom else I called yesterday.] And there must be something in “Before He Cheats” that sounds like “Dad’s cell phone”.
SPIDADE: Well, I enjoyed it. Thanks. And now there’s something for your blog. [Hmm!]
Don’t you wish I’d called you?
BTW, yes, I know I still haven’t written about almost getting myself killed in a spinout on I-95. It’s too taxing. I’ve tried. I’ll do it, I will, but it’s hard to write this thing eloquently. And y’all know me. Always eloquent. Also hard to write about that when your head feels like it might split down the middle.
funny the things that all get thrown in the same box on moving night when you’re in a rush and someone says “just grab a box and throw everything that’s left in the same box!”
and this is from more than one move ago. i’ve never opened this box.
all of my old abstract art drawings. all in pen, all shapes and forms, all one blob. not a scene or figures. well… abstract. and i found them, all in one folder, including the original, which i had silkscreened onto a t-shirt for my h.s. artist boyfriend (the irish one who my mom later termed “the greasy-haired one”) for Christmas. i can’t believe i found all of them! and they’re all in plastic sheet protectors, like i knew back then that i would want to know that i had taken care of them, that i’d kept them in good condition. good past-tense sarahk! i’m so proud of past me. i still doodle them today. mostly in church during sermons. :-) they keep me focused.
in the same portfolio with them? this is great. my TI-82 calculator instructions. not the booklet, the one-page cheat sheet. the official one, though. hole punched and in the portfolio that zips closed. LOL, right there in the front. i laughed when i saw it right in the front of all the art. i mean, i still keep all that kind of stuff, but in the hanging file folders under “manuals and warranties – office”, not with the art.
in the same box was my Dorothy Shaw Bell Choir notebook.
also my personal income tax class notebook. and my semester project. i got a 95 from Professor Quintero. haha, my balance sheet didn’t balance, but “otherwise, great work!” my balance sheet didn’t balance! how did i ever make it as a CPA? this is why you go through at least two reviews before any financial statement or tax return goes out the door. i’m gonna throw that one out now, it’s lived long enough.
that’s the same box that contained my Ruben Sierra baseball.