Stupidity

I had two small projects I want to get done today. Number One was to hang a shelf/pot rack thing over our stove. Number Two was to find a piece of wood to top my sewing table with. The table originally had a machine that folded down into a hole in the top when you weren’t using it, but I couldn’t work the machine (very old, very broken) so I gave it away and bought a dirt cheap one from someone who was cleaning out their aunt-in-law’s attic. Problem: new machine is smaller than old, so it falls through the hole in the table instead of sitting tidily on top of it. Rather than figure out a way to cut a piece of wood to plug the hole, I just wanted to buy a piece of plywood, cut it to fit the top of the entire table and screw it down.

I went to home depot and bought a shelf and screw hooks to make the pot rack thing, and a half sheet of plywood for the table project.

At the counter, I dropped the screw hooks into the bottom of the cart and somehow, stupidly, reached my hand through a hole in the cart to retrieve them and got my hand stuck. It took the cashier holding the card steady while I yanked backwards on the trapped hand to get myself free.

Then, at home, I was all I-am-woman-hear-me-roar and I unloaded the plywood by myself.

Did you know it’s been an unusually windy spring?

The wind caught the plywood and before I knew what was happening, I was three houses down the block and barefoot, having lost my flip flops somewhere along the way.

I wrestled the plywood back to my house and through the door, then unloaded the shelf I bought.

Turns out it’s about 2 inches too long for the space.

I need to return it, but after the whole got-my-hand-stuck-in-the-cart thing, I can’t bear to go back to the store today. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

The Incident in the Bike Store Bathroom

***I'm waiting for the mister to finish up at a bike store in Moab, Utah, and I found a free wireless connection, so I'm posting this. Pictures and other tales from our vacation will be posted upon our return to the great white north.***

I have issues with my digestive tract. I used to be able to eat anything, anywhere, and be just fine. See Semester in Guadalajara, Mexico, eating strange things from street vendors with only minor consequences. But in more recent years, my stomach and intestines have asserted that they will no longer be cooperative. Despite increased water and fiber intakes, I waffle between crippling constipation, nausea, and a sudden, urgent need to poop. The kind of sudden, urgent need that results in a clenched-cheek speed-walk to the nearest facility, accompanied by ominous rumblings and gurglings and muttered prayers that I not embarrass myself in public.

The mister and I were in a bicycle shop in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, a couple of hours west of Denver. He was chatting with the store employee, looking at a topographical map of the area and discussing the best places to go for a mountain bike ride. I was perusing the sale racks, contemplating whether or not I needed a $15 fleece zip-up jacket when suddenly, the NEED struck.

Oh, God, I thought, looking around for a bathroom. Oh, God. I hurried up to the desk and jumped right into the middle of the conversation. “Excuse me,” I said, doing my best to look calm and appear like I wasn’t about to crap in my pants, “do you have a ladies room?”

The clerk nodded and sent me towards a door covered in mountain biking posters. I did my business and zipped and buttoned up. Then I hit the handle to flush.

Jiggle clank. No flushing. I hit the handle harder. Jiggle clank. No flushing. I panicked and shook the handle up and down like a mad woman. Jiggle clank jiggle jiggle clank. NO FLUSHING.

Panic.

Since, courtesy of owning a home, I know a little bit about toilets and their inner workings, I slipped the top off the toilet tank, hoping the problem would make itself clear.

It did.

There was no water in the tank. No water in the tank equals a failure to flush.

Of course, knowing a problem and being able to remedy a problem are two very different things.

Okay, I thought to myself. If there’s no water in the tank, the toilet can’t flush. So, in order to flush, which I desperately need to do because yuck, I need to get water in the tank. The sink’s on the other side of the room, so I need a bucket to carry water in to fill the tank.

I looked around the room, wild-eyed in panic. No buckets. But there was a tiny blue plastic garbage can!

I pulled the bag out of the can and filled the can with water. I poured the water into the tank and was crestfallen when it only amounted to an inch in the bottom of the tank. Not enough to flush. I hurriedly filled and emptied my little makeshift bucket a couple of more times, getting a grand total of six inches of water in the tank, not even half full.

It’ll have to do, I thought, and I pressed the handle again. The toilet only sort of flushed. It made the right kind of noises, but didn’t really do much of the whole down the drain part.

I debated going through the whole rigmarole again, filling the tank with the little garbage can, but by this point in time I’d been the bathroom for an unreasonable length of time, even by my standards, and I had to get out of there.

I hurriedly reassembled the tank, tucked the garbage bag back into the can, and bolted out of there.

I snagged the black fleece jacket off the sale rack and tossed it on the counter, figuring the poor employee was going to find what I left in that bathroom and the least I could do was bump up his commission a little bit. While paying, I gave the mister the look that says wrap it up now, buddy, or I’ll make you very sorry. He obeys this look, as I have perfected it and the consequences for ignoring it over the course of our seven year relationship and he knows I only bust it out when I mean it.

He quickly thanked the clerk, purchased the topographical map, and we were out of there.

“What the hell were you doing in the bathroom for so long?” he asked.

Static Cling

I did about four thousand loads of laundry over the weekend. The machine was going nonstop for two days. I wasn’t kidding when I said I own a lot of clothing or when I said I tend to let laundry pile up. So does the mister. So I did laundry for two days.

I have a bunch of sweater sets that are machine washable and can go in the drier and I love them. I washed the white one with a load of whites, folded it, and stuck it on a shelf.

Yesterday I pulled it down, put it on, and was getting ready to head out the door when the mister goes, “What’s on your back?”

He reached out and pulled a pair of panties off the back of my sweater, the static making audible snapping noises as the fabric parted ways.

I am so glad he got up early enough to catch that before I packed up, went to work and got busted walking around with a pair of white lace undies hanging from the back of my sweater.

Email Exchange

I'm cleaning out my very full e-mail inbox at work today because we've officially hit the holiday slump, where there's just not much going on. And my inbox is VERY full, mostly with junk or funny emails from friends.

I stumbled across this gem:

Me: I forgot to put on deodorant today and I'm starting to offend myself.
AP: It happens to the best of us.

Really? I think she was just being nice, because I find it hard to believe the rest of the world is as batshit insane as I am and forgets such basic stuff. Have you ever forgotten deodorant? What about other things, like socks? Or am I the only one that has to keep a full change of clothes and a toiletry kit in her office?

Do I look that bad?

My mom and I indulged in manicures and pedicures over the weekend. I inherited my dry, dry skin from her and we both had cracked and bleeding cuticles from the weather, plus my dad was sick and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with his whining, so we went to the nail salon by my house.

The woman who sanded my feet and painted my nails kept peering anxiously at my eyebrows. “We do waxing here,” she offered.

“I just got them done,” I replied, which is actually fairly true; I got them done about a month ago with my friend B, and they’re in pretty good shape. Well, I think they are. Given their naturally caterpillar and unibrow appearance, I consider any type of arch and separation to be pretty good shape.

The woman hummed a little, still staring at my eyebrows. “You would look younger if you got them done again.”

Ouch.

I met a gym buddy in my kickboxing class a few weeks ago. One of those people you’re happy to spend time with at the gym and know absolutely nothing about other than the fact she, too, tries to sing along with Britney while doing roundhouse punches. You think I'm crazy, I got your crazy.

After class one day we were chatting while sucking down gallons of water. She commented that she wouldn’t be at the next class because her kid had a concert at school. “Oh, how old’s your kid?” I asked.

“12,” she replied.

“Wow,” I commented, thinking that the woman didn’t look old enough to have a two year old, much less an adolescent. She must have started when she was 9.

“I know,” she said, “I look younger than I am. But I’m 35.”

I suppressed the urge to ask what she uses on her skin, because she really does look 15 years younger.

The conversation continued and somehow, she mentioned that she thought I looked like I was in my mid-thirties as well.

Uh, not so much. About a decade off, actually. I’m 26.

Ouch.

And, finally, the topper. The guy-of-uncertain-sexual-orientation who gets my coffee at Starbucks and I have a little relationship. He calls me darling and slips me free drinks once in a while. I don’t tip every time, but when I do, I drop a tenner into the tip cup. We joke and laugh and commiserate at the insane early morning hours we both seem to work, him out of necessity and me because I like to leave work at 5:00 sharp and that sometimes means I need to get to the office at 6:45 in the morning.

This morning he asked if I wanted a double-shot in my latte.

“Nah,” I said. I’m trying to cut back on the caffeine.

“Really?” he asked, his artfully groomed eyebrows arching. “Because, darling, the bags under your eyes are big enough to carry groceries. You look tired.”

Ouch.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be at home with one of those puffiness-reducing gel masks, setting up my next waxing appointment and trying to find a cheap place to get a facial.

Help! Advice Needed!

I’m getting pictures taken as a Christmas gift for the mister.

There’s a local photography studio that does pin-up photography and I’m headed over there in less than two weeks for a photo shoot. (Tasteful, not nude. Maybe tacky, but not vulgar.)

What the hell should I wear?

Options I’ve thought of thus far (things already in my wardrobe):

A suit. I own many. Personal fave: a Calvin Klein number with a knee-length pencil skirt and belted blazer in a black-and-white houndstooth. Also a gray skirt suit, a black skirt suit (that one’s my funeral suit – perhaps not the best option). There are several pantsuits but I’m going with a big fat no on those. There’s also an entire closet full of work clothes: blazers, professional tops, slacks, skirts, boring control top pantyhose, and plain white camisoles.

A men’s white oxford and bare legs. Classic and something I would actually wear. Well, not in public, but...shut up.

A nightie. I own a couple, most of them gifts from my bridal shower. The problem is that the ones that qualify as “sexy” also qualify as see-thru, and I’m not quite comfortable with that.

Lingerie. I mostly own serviceable undies and boring beige bras. I’m a definite comfort over style kind of girl. And the va-va-voom stuff I own, well, a lot of it came from my bridal shower, and it is DEFINITELY va-va-voom but I’m not particularly sure I want the mister carrying a picture of me in teeny-tiny undies in his wallet.

Do you see why I need help? Suggestions, please. Stores that I can afford to shop at, outfits you think would be cute, anything.

(I am not kidding, you people had better give me ideas or I’m going to end up getting these pictures taken in my leggings and Ugg boots.)

Gassier than Usual

First off, a fact: the average person farts twelve to eighteen times per day, so those of you prissy people out there that are pretending like you’ve never broken wind: shut it. I know you’re lying.

Several weeks ago I went in for my annual exam. I know, you’re thinking, Buster, your hoo-haa is your business, don’t tell me about it.

I’m not going to. But I am going to tell you that my doctor suggested I begin taking a fiber supplement. She warned me that I would be a bit gassier than usual for the first few weeks I was on it.

She was not kidding.

(My college roommate is all: gassier? How is that possible?)

So, I’m taking my fiber supplement. And dealing with the consequences.

One morning last week, I got to work before the rest of my coworkers, other than my assistant, who I don’t think ever goes home. I’m usually here before the rest of the attorneys because I’d rather come in early and leave at 5 than come in at 9:30 and stay until 7.

So, I had the run of the office.

I noticed the lilies MJ sent me for my birthday need some trimming, so I got out my scissors and started snipping away, my back to my office door.

And I let fly the loudest fart in the history of the world.

And then I hear it. A throat clearing from behind me. My boss (one of five, actually) was standing in the doorway to my office.

“Buster,” he says, “I need to go take a deposition today, and while I’m gone I need you to do some research and draft a memo for me.”

I had to stand there, red-faced and embarrassed, and take notes regarding the information he needed.

Awesome.