It's been way too long since I posted anything...this Craigslist ad I wrote is the most I've done in months.  Enjoy!


About a month ago my husband told me he was planning on going to an auction with a few of his buddies. I figure that's a pretty safe place for him to hang out for a Saturday, I mean how much money could he actually waste there, right? The day arrives, his friends show up and they all pile into his pickup truck and head out to the auction. Woo-hoo! A few hours to catch up on some housework (lol!) or read a book, whichever.

Several hours later finds me out in the yard watering my trees when the hubby pops out the back door and lures me in with his excited "Come see what I bought for you!" What could it be? Did he find me a beautiful, 1940s waterfall bedroom set for some amazingly low price? Maybe he bought me some cool fish tank stand so I can expand my aquatic hobby. The excitement is simply overwhelming, so I rush inside to see what he found.

Well, my hopes were dashed upon entering my kitchen to find my beaming husband standing behind a vacuum cleaner. An old, used and very chrome-y looking vacuum cleaner. Um, thanks? But I'm not a complete meany so I say "Oh, it's a vacuum cleaner. Okay, is it better than the one I already own?" And my overly proud of his purchase husband begins to extol me on the virtues of this amazing machine.

This, he informs me, is a KIRBY!!! vacuum cleaner. The very best of the best of vacuum cleaners. Why, all the women whose homes he has admired for many years use KIRBY!!! vacuum cleaners. Nothing less will do. And look at all the attachments, he says. There are some that we'll probably never even figure out what they're for, but certainly they are very important to have. AND, it has extra bags! So we don't even have to worry about buying new bags for a long time ("longer still because my wife rarely vacuums" was thankfully left out). He briefly mentions the shampoo attachment (for when the idiot cats throw-up, again!) and then, he pulls out an attachment and with a reverence usually reserved for vintage whiskey or especially beautiful revolvers, he intones "And this brush...this brush is so you can clean the blinds!"

I'm duly impressed with his sales spiel, but he's not done yet. Because, like any good vacuum cleaner salesman would do, he insists on showing me how it works. As an aside, I've been around vacuums for a very long time and am fairly well versed in how they work. Evidently hubby has forgotten this and I hate to ruin his moment in the sun so I go along with him. It should be noted that by this time, our twelve year old son has joined us to watch this new wonder do it's magic.

My husband carefully adds the attachment to the long hose and plugs the machine in. He wheels the whole thing over to the blinds on the back door, looks at me with a smile and says "Watch this!" Hitting the "on" switch, the KIRBY!!! comes to life with a "RAWR!" of power. You can feel the surge of adrenaline pulsing through it's chrome-y parts. The cats scatter to the far corners of the house and the dogs look on it with horror. It is an animal. It is power, and virility and beauty all wrapped up into one amazing machine. And then...our son says "what's that smell?"

Hubby continues to run the brush over the blinds only looking over his shoulder long enough to say "That's raw power son" before going back to obliterating the dust from the slats. I have to say that the speed with which that dust was sucked into the KIRBY!!! was a sight to behold. It never stood a chance. About four slats in, our son again says "what's that smell?" and I realize that I am starting to smell something as well. Something...burny...electrically...electrically burny...and then Hubby smells it too. He turns around and looks down at his amazing machine and says "OMG! It's on fire!" And I dumbly reply "What is?" My husband's eyes get huge and he shouts "The vacuum cleaner is on fire! OMG! It's on fire! Holy sh!!!t! Unplug it!"

I dutifully unplug the raging monster and my heroic husband picks the flaming beast up in one massive fist and carries it outside. Upon being released from the source of fuel, this cousin of the Kraken (land version) loses steam and puts itself out. The stench of it's fury permeates my house and now, my back patio as well. The neighbors may or may not now believe they live next door to a long time sailor. Our son stands transfixed on the patio, staring at his father in what I can only assume is awe at his heroic acts.

Once the emergency is over, our hero stands in defeat, looking at his beloved KIRBY!!!, still slightly smoking at his feet. Lifting his eyes to mine, he says sadly "I guess I'll have to throw it away...I'm sorry your gift sucked." It breaks my heart to see him so destroyed. He wanted to badly to bring me this wonderful machine that he knew would make me the happiest woman in the world. So I tell him that he shouldn't throw it away. It's too GOOD to throw away. I mean, it's a KIRBY!!! for goodness sakes! They don't get thrown away! I promise him I will salvage the parts and sell them to the good people of Craigslist. People who appreciate what a wonder a KIRBY!!! is, people who will want it's parts to replace the ones on their own KIRBYs!!! Not because they broke obviously (because KIRBYs!!! don't break), but because sometimes the parts on their own KIRBYs!!! can just no longer stand up to the raw power of the machine.

So, with all of that in mind, I'm offering the remains, no, the strongest parts, of my husband's loving gift to me. I'm asking $30 (obo) for everything you see in the foreground of the first picture. For you highly technical folks, that doesn't include the background items, desk, empty box, carpeting or any animals that may have slipped into the shot (well, the cats might be negotiable) Cash only and you must pick up.

I. Have. Had. Enough!

So I've heard rumblings from the complaint department about the lack of posting lately.  It's not for lack of fodder, I assure you.  I've been sort of busy doing stuff I can't really talk about yet because it's not set in stone, but I don't want to disappoint my three readers so I will regale you with a tale...

For the past week, we have been hosting Lola while my sister and Music Man are overseas making music in Belgium and other various locales.  Lola, if you remember back, is their absolutely adorable long-haired miniature dachshund.  This is her as a puppy...

So cute.  But I digress.

Lola, as cute as she is, is in love with terrorizing my cats.  She does not have cats in her home so they are one of the novelties and best parts about staying with Auntie Mirth.  But she doesn't terrorize all of the cats, just the one.  See, The Hooligan has enough sense to make himself scarce.  He doesn't come out until after bedtime when Lola is safely kenneled.  He's surprisingly self preserving for a cat that is of questionable IQ.  The Antagonizer is flat out lazy and just refuses to run from Lola.  So while Lola would like to chase her, it's really hard to chase a furry lump that just lays there.  But Tiberius, oh Tiberius you poor thing, he runs like the devil himself is chasing him.  And maybe, just maybe, she is.

The typical situation plays out like this...

Tiberius is minding his own business, walking from one nap spot to another, when Lola spots him.  She immediately heads full bore in his direction.  Tiberius panics and starts running towards any perceived safety.  Lola follows, looking absolutely gleeful.  Around and around they go until either Tiberius figures out to jump up onto something tall enough that she can't follow or I am able to capture Lola and put her in time out in her coop (fenced in area in my kitchen.)  Lola calms down, gets released from prison and spots the cat again.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  All day long.

I've tried explaining to Tiberius that he doesn't need to run.  He outweighs her probably 2-1, he has longer arms and faster reflexes.  He clearly has the advantage.  But no, every day for four days we had the same scenario being played out.  Clearly something needed to change.  And it did.

On the fifth day, Tiberius was laying in the kitchen next to end of the cabinets.  Lola came around the corner, spotted him and immediately headed towards him at top speed.  But Tiberius just looked at her and didn't move.  She kept running but suddenly a really confused look crossed her face as she realized he wasn't running.  She hit the brakes.  Since she has furry feet and was on the tile, this just served to make her slide.  Right smack into the cat.  Who refused to move.

Lola scrambled to her feet and gave the cat a poke with her nose.  Tiberius responded by growling at her and raising a paw at her head.  She backed up, tilting her head in confusion at him.  He didn't get up and he didn't stop growling.  But he did put his paw down.

I figured we were done.  The cat finally figured out the secret to dealing with little skippy dogs that like to chase.  You don't run, they don't chase, everyone is happy.  But Tiberius wasn't quite done with his stand.

About fifteen minutes later I put Lola in her coop to eat her meal.  As a side note, I don't usually separate my dogs while they eat but Lola doesn't have a whole lot of sense in the dealing with other dogs department and doesn't realize that sticking your head into the dish of another dog could be dangerous.  I'd like to return her to her loving owners in one piece thank you very much.  So I separate her from them during meals.  Moving on.

So Lola has just been put into her coop to eat and I go sit on the couch about five feet away to catch up on some very important thing that the Internet has to offer.  About a minute later I hear a Thump! and look over to see that Tiberius has jumped into the coop with Lola.  Hmmm, this is interesting.  Wonder what's going to happen?  Apparently so did Lola as she backed warily away from Tiberius.

After looking at the dog for about fifteen seconds, Tiberius reached a paw out, hooked the edge of her food dish and pulled it towards himself.  He never broke eye contact with her while he did so.  Then he settled in and starting eating her food.  Lola sat in the corner looking very concerned.  After he had eaten enough, Tiberius stood up.  Lola cringed, but he wasn't going after her.  Instead, he reached his paw out again, hooked her water dish and dragged this towards himself.  He continued to stare at Lola while he got a good long drink.  Lola stayed in her corner.  Then the cat sat next to her food and water dish and stared at her until she lay down and looked away.  Then, and only then, did that rotten cat jump out of her coop and walk away.

Today is day eight and while Lola has attempted a few halfhearted runs towards Tiberius just to see if he'll run, it's been greatly reduced.  He doesn't run and she gives up.  Now she has moved on to trying to ferret out The Hooligan from his hiding spots.  The Hooligan, who spent his formative years attached to either of the dogs necks, doesn't prefer to be harassed so I'm sure it will be interesting if she ever actually manages to corner him.  Don't worry though, I've got lots of ice pack, plastic bags and a cooler...I'll try to save the severed limbs for re-attachment.

The Garden of Impending Doom

We have several gardens that we put together last fall and planted this spring.  Prior to our vacation in July, the gardens were producing beautifully on a daily basis.  At least as far as the cherry tomatoes go.  Those things were crazy prolific.  I'm talking three or four dozen tomatoes every day.  And they were awesome.  I don't know about you but I've never thought store bought tomatoes were all that great.  They're okay, but they're fairly nondescript.  But these things were downright spicy (comparatively speaking).  Long story short, Mister C was thrilled with his daily allotment of cherry tomatoes and I was eating them every time I walked through the kitchen (which is apparently a lot since my weight loss is at a standstill, but that's another story.) 

Anyway, other than the cherry tomatoes, the only other pre-vacation producers were the cantaloupe and watermelon plants and there were just a few of those.  The strawberries had been fairly choked out by the cantaloupe vines from hell by this point.  The red and green pepper plants were about three feet tall and had several small peppers on each plant.  The day before we left on vacation I had decided to pick the sole cucumber even thought I didn't think it was quite ripe.  My assumption being that since we were going to be gone for nine days it would go to waste if I didn't pick it.  It was actually pretty good, although fairly small.

Upon returning from vacation, the first thing I did was head to the garden to see what remained.  I gleaned several dozen cherry tomatoes, two cantaloupe and several watermelons.  The peppers weren't doing well at all, most of the fruit had rotted on the plant.  There were also several cucumbers.  Or at least what were supposed to be cucumbers. 

Instead of the cucumbers being a nice, dark green and of reasonable size, they were huge, yellow, slug-like things.  I'm not even kidding, I was looking at those things trying to figure out where their eyes were.  They were downright horrifying.  So I pulled them off the vine and brought them into the house for an autopsy. 

I've been watching a lot of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" on the Discovery channel and I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing here.  So I take my alien cucumber and I make the classic Y incision in it's...chest...in anticipation of figuring out what went wrong with the little bastard.  Instead of nice, firm, cucumber flesh, I have mushville (it's a word.)  An "off" scent came rolling off the deceased (I can only assume the cucumber was using some sort of illegal fertilizer) almost knocking me off my feet.  And then my beautiful Y incision kind of collapsed on itself due to the mush factor.  I'll be honest, I didn't see a need to continue the autopsy at this point since the end result was that this particular vegetable was uneatable (and that actually is a word.)  So, into the compost it went.

We've now been home for just over three weeks.  I've pulled a few more cantaloupes and watermelons off the vines and they've been awesome.  Nothing else seems to be producing right now (no berries, no grapes.)  The cantaloupe plants current have a half dozen more melons getting ripe which is great, although their vines have gotten much more aggressive.  Several of the vines are aiming for the air conditioner (it has been consistently over 100 degrees lately) and one pioneering vine has made it's way over to steal nutrients from my orange tree.  But that's not all...

This morning I went out to see if anything was available and after picking another dozen cherry tomatoes, I thought I would check to see if any new cucumbers have shown up.  They have...

Thank goodness we have them caged!

Designated driver

On Monday, my friend A had her gallbladder removed. Anyone who has had to go through the process to figure out that they needed this surgery in the first place knows it isn't fun. It's usually months, if not years, of discomfort and pain. It's often enough to be miserable, but not often enough to go to the doctor and get any kind of concrete answer. I had this very same particular surgery done two decades ago when I was young. Mamoo, my older sister and most, if not all, of my aunts have had this same surgery. My family is either genetically predisposed to this particular problem, or we all eat the same crap that can contribute towards causing it. I'm betting it's a 40/60 split with the preference towards our diet. But I digress.

I took A in to the hospital Monday morning around 10:45. I'm not sure when her surgery was technically scheduled for but we needed to be there by 11:00 so I'm guessing around noonish. They didn't take her back until almost 1:00 at which point I went out and got myself a cheeseburger and a coffee at a nearby strip mall. Good thing I did since it was a long while before I ate again.

A's doctor came out to the waiting room to update me after he finished the surgery. This was around 2:15, about the amount of time I would have expected. He told me she had done well and was in the recovery room. Evidently she found the recovery room to her liking because she spent a good amount of time there. Usually time in recovery is 30-45 minutes before they ship you back to outpatient. Three hours and fifteen minutes later I was finally called back to outpatient. To their credit, the liaison nurse from recovery did come out frequently to give me updates. Most of them were along the lines of "Well, she's still in a lot of pain, it's going to be another 45 minutes to an hour." The final update was "She's back there discussing the superbowl commercials with the nurses." So I knew we were close at that point.

Finally at 5:25 they called me back to the outpatient area, which by the way, is exactly the same place as the inpatient area. So anyone coming in for surgery can get an inkling of the fun they'll be having after they wake up from their surgery. Probably not good planning if you think about it. But anyway, I head back and there's A, laying in her bed and not looking very happy. She was still in a lot of pain.

As a total side note here, everyone has a different pain threshold. Some people, myself included, have an exceedingly high pain tolerance. This is great for the fact that those people tend to have a really quick recovery time and be up and going about their business soon after surgery. Some people have an exceedingly low pain tolerance. In the case of A, per the nurse, she has "zero pain tolerance." So, they had to give her more medication than someone with a higher threshold would require. I tell you all of this just so you can have a better understanding of the rest of this story.

By the time I showed up in outpatient, A had had several doses of whatever they give you in the recovery room, but she's still exceedingly uncomfortable. About thirty minutes after I get into the room they give her two Percocets. She got a little sleepy so I got out my book to pass the time. After about fifteen minutes of quiet we get the following (out of the blue mind you)

A: You're my buddy!
M: (laughing) yeah, I know.
A: Seriously, you're so nice.
M: Yup. How about you rest for a little while?
A: Okay. But you're still my buddy.

We have quiet for a few minutes.

A: Did I tell you how much I appreciate you doing this?
M: Yep, you did. It's cool.
A: I'm so sappy right now.
M: Yes, you kinda are.
A: Buddy!

Shaking my head, going back to my book we get a few more minutes of quiet.

A: Hey, I should call my mom!
M: Okay.

I hand her her cell phone and she slurs through a conversation with her mom (Hi Mellon!) Eventually phone call gets disconnected and A passes back out.

Repeat the above interactions several times over before we get the final go ahead to leave the hospital. This is around 6:45. I go pull my vehicle to the patient loading zone and the nurse and I help pour A into it. As we pull away, I have her prescription in hand and have dug out her insurance card and debit card to get it filled. On the way to the pharmacy the conversation continues in it's previously established vein...

A: I love you man.
M: (Laughing) drugs kicking in nicely huh?
A: Yep. Good stuff.
M: I'm glad you're not in as much pain.
A: Nope.
A: I'm still really sappy though, and I'm just gonnna tell you that you're my buddy.
M: Okay, that's cool.
A: (Breaking into song) Oh! And then I shot my foot off!
M: What the hell?
A: It's a song! Jeff Dunham.
M: Oookkkaaayyy.
A: Yup! Jingle bombs! Jingle bombs! Jingle all the way!
M: Oh dear god, this isn't good.
A: No! It's really cool! It's Akmed the Terrorist and he blows himself up!
M: Hahaha! Dude, I feel like the designated driver taking my drunk friend home from the bar.
A: (back to singing) I got through checkpoint A, but not through checkpoint B, where are all the virgins that were promised me?
M: (shaking head) We're at the pharmacy, settle down for a few.
A: Okay! (to the car in front of me) Hey! Move it! Blocking up the line. (to me) you should go to the next line over.
M: They one that's blocked off?
A: Oh yeah, I didn't see that.
M: Also, there's no speaker or anything over there. I'd have to yell over to the first line and get out of my car to bring them the prescription.
A: Oh wow, I didn't even notice that there's nothing there.
M: That's not really surprising.
A: Oh! Jingle bombs! Jingle bombs! Your soldiers shot me dead!
M: Good lord.

And so it continued until I had dropped off the prescription at the window. We had a twenty minute wait so I left her in the car long enough to go inside and get her some apple juice. She tried to convince me to take her debit card for the transaction but I could just see how well that would go. Let's see, I've just dropped off a prescription for a narcotic at the window and now I'm inside using a debit card that's not my own, and the owner of the above mentioned debit card is singing loudly in the parking lot about terrorists. Yeah, I'm not going to jail for a bottle of apple juice, I'll buy this round thanks.

I finally got A home and on the couch where she passed out for several hours before I left. She's doing better today, although still in a lot of pain. She has stopped singing songs about terrorists and calling me her buddy. And as promised, I did not videotape her performance. Although I should have. I could have gotten some really good mileage from it.

Yet another episode of the Keystone Cops

So yesterday I went out to feed my chickens. A pretty straightforward task that doesn't take a whole lot of thought, effort or time. Usually.

I had filled their feeder and was putting it back in the coop when somehow, I'm not even sure how, I whacked my head on one of the boards that holds up the roof. And when I say "whacked" I truly mean I whacked that sucker hard. Like, seeing stars hard. Instant pain shooting through my head hard. Ah awesome.

So I finish setting the feeder down, grab my head and start stumbling out of the coop. Now, just outside of the coop, Mister C had put a trail of stepping stones so I could walk from the coop to the grass without stepping on the gravel. The only problem is that earlier in the day one of the dogs had run through the area and knocked some rocks onto the the stepping stones. And as I stumbled blindly out of the coop, holding my head in agony, I stepped directly onto one of those stones that were sitting on the stepping stone. Barefooted. And it was like stepping on a Lego on the kitchen floor, the pain shot up through my foot and my immediate reaction was to try and get away from that pain.

So now I'm holding my head, trying to lean away from the sharp rock in my foot, and trying to keep my balance while blinded by pain from head to toe. And of course it's me, so there's no balance on a good day without issues and I started to tip over. I reached out to grab the nearest thing to try and catch my balance. The nearest thing happened to be the top rail of one of our raised garden beds. I caught myself and immediately felt pain in my thumb because somehow, I had managed to catch the rail at just the right angle to shove a splinter of wood deep into my thumb.

So now, I'm holding my aching head, limping from the rock in my foot and bleeding from a splinter that's so deep in my thumb that I can barely see it. Oh and the chickens are fairly traumatized as well by the all the flailing about and whimpering. Good times.

It took two attempts by me and one by Mister C before I could dig that stupid splinter out. By the end I was bleeding pretty well and it still hurts today as does my head. On the bright side, my foot feels perfectly normal.

The best part of the whole incident is the that I've read enough and seen enough of what chickens can and will eat and there's no way I'm going down in their immediate area. That's all I need is to be pecked to death by my girls. I suspect there would be no glory in that ending.

So, there you have it, yet another reason why I shouldn't be allowed out without supervision.

White shirts

I love white shirts. Especially new, white tee-shirts. I think a bright, white shirt is just the perfect complement to so many outfits. It looks clean. It looks summery. Throw on a black blazer and heels and I can go out pretty much anywhere. It's a classic look worn by men such as James Dean and by Travolta portraying Danny Zuko in Grease. Even the glamorous Marilyn Monroe was photographed wearing jeans and a white shirt. So it's a good look and I like it.

For as much as I love white shirts though, I cannot keep them clean. I probably have ten white shirts hanging in my closet that are no longer perfectly white. I end up saving them to use for gardening and painting because they're usually too new to even think about tossing out. I have even taken to buying them two or three at a time when I find them on sale at places like Old Navy and Target.

The main thing that seems to happen to my pristine white shirts is that I have issues with food. I don't know if I'm an excessively messy eater or if I just have really bad luck, but I cannot keep food off my white shirts. And because I'm not a member of the "A Team", everything that falls tends to land in a prominent and obvious location. Which, I have to say, probably cuts down on the leering substantially. Because most men don't seem to have a desire to continue staring once they've noted the dribbled food and summarily classified me as "special".

Lately, I've really been trying to keep my white shirts clean through various means. I have gone so far as to start tying a dish towel around my neck when I eat. This works fairly well most of the time, but obviously only when I'm at home. I try to portray myself in a little more mature light when I eat out in public. Not that you'd know that just by looking at me. When in public, I try to be more conscious of getting my food all the way to my mouth. Which is somewhat effective but falls short when I'm launching into some intricate story line that requires gesticulation to add pizazz.

Anyway, while at dinner with A on Sunday I managed to ruin my second to last new white shirt by dribbling ranch dressing down it. One would think that white on white wouldn't stain. Unfortunately ranch dressing is primarily fat (mmmmm, fat!) and it left a lovely oil spot on the shirt. So now I'm down to one nice white shirt. Which I wore today while out and about with Mamoo looking at houses. We stopped for lunch at Coco's and I ordered the french toast and coffee. I am very proud to say that I did not spill one drop of my food on my shirt.

As we were driving away from lunch however, I looked down and noticed a bluish/purple spot on my pristine shirt. You guys, it was the blueberry topping from my mother's pancakes. Are you kidding me? I don't even want to know how in the hell I got her food on my right breast. I got nothing. I am just at a complete loss for a reasonable explanation for this. Guess I'll stop by Old Navy and see if white tee-shirts are on sale tomorrow.

Zumba!

Should really be referred to as "My hips don't do that."

At the prompting of my charmingly deceitful younger sister, Miss Lee, under the guise of "It'll be FUN! and it's only five dollars!", we went to a zumba class last night. If you don't know what zumba is, go to the internet and look up Shakira. See that hip shaking madness going on? Those impossibly sexy looking maneuvers that she's doing with a smile on her face? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what it's supposed to look like. When I'm doing it? Not so much.

So, thankfully, the two of us made up half the class. You know, less people to see the awkwardness that is me trying to dance. There's a reason I don't dance. I have the grace and agility of a newborn calf. My legs don't go where they're supposed to and there's a lot of wobbling going on. And that's just the warm up.

Now luckily for us, our leader Daphne let us know ahead of time that she would "slow things down" for us. Because we're new and all. Thank goodness for that as I cannot even imagine if things were up to speed. She showed us a few of the basic moves prior to starting and several times throughout. It certainly seemed doable.

And so we began. And the difference between watching her walk through the steps and making a stab at doing them up to dance speed was incredibly large. I stumbled along slightly behind, desperately watching Daphne's feet for some inkling of what direction I should be headed next. I was mostly moving in the same general direction as the rest of the class, just a whole lot less gracefully. But it gets better. Because now that the feet are moving, we need to add arm movement. Lord help me, I cannot do two things at once and it has to be painfully obvious to those around me.

So there I am, tripping over my feet and flailing my arms wildly about when Daphne adds clapping and intermittent jumping to the mix. Seriously? Clapping? And jumping? Because I'm not amusing enough to watch as it is? Oh wait, is she swiveling her hips while turning in a circle? And now she's facing me because I cannot seem to swivel and turn fast enough to be pointing in the right direction. At that point, since I couldn't see what the hell she was even doing, I just start making it up as I go. Hey, look at me go! I can (sort of) gyrate and swing my hips about! Woo hoo! Okay, hang on, I think I'm the only one still facing this direction. Whoops! And now Miss Lee is bearing down on me because we're supposed to be grape-vine-ing to the right.

Approximately fifty five minutes later we got to the cool down song. I had stumbled, lagged, dragged, gyrated, flailed and tripped my way through most of the class, clapping off beat and jumping up when others were squatting. But I made it. I had sat out one song when it occurred to me that I was seeing stars and had a very real possibility of passing out because I am so woefully out of shape. I was out of breath, sweating like a pig and my legs were shaking. Driving a stick shift home made me glad it was mostly highway since I didn't really have to push the clutch very often.

This morning, my thighs and butt hurt like hell. That is not a feeling I cherish. But there's another class on Wednesday and I'll be in it.

Why facial products should never change.

I won't be offended if the few menfolk that read this disengage right about...now.

For as far back as I can remember, I've always had sensitive skin. I can't wear jewelery or watches (lucky Mister C!). I can't wear most makeup, although I won't go out in public without my lipstick. And I really have to watch what kind of moisturizer I use. So when my family was looking for ideas for Christmas, I sent them a link to the exact moisturizer I have used for years. And when I opened it up at Christmas, I was very happy.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I had finally opened the box up to start using my favorite moisturizer. When I pulled it out of the box I thought "Hmmmm, they changed the packaging." I wasn't too concerned as I know that most companies change their packaging periodically. So I started using it.

A few days later I noticed some minor breaking out. Considering that I had just started night class and my in-laws were still in town, I figured I might be a little stressed out and didn't worry too much about it. A few days after that, I noticed when I put my moisturizer on that it kind of felt like it was burning as I was applying it. I figured my skin must be really dry and again, didn't worry too much about it.

About five days ago I looked in the mirror in the morning and thought "Hmmm, what the hell? Why am I covered in acne?" It did not occur to me at the time that it was a reaction to anything since I hadn't used the moisturizer the night before. I didn't realize that a contact dermatitis can take up to 48 hours to appear.

But anyway, I thought I had acne so I went over to the pharmacy and picked up some Cetaphil and a cleanser with benzoyl peroxide in it and started using them that night. I alternated between the two products, using one at night and one in the morning. I did this for two days, hoping to see good results rapidly.

But guess what? When you have an allergic reaction to a product and then you add on a harsher product (the benzoyl peroxide) it makes the problem much, much worse. I mean REALLY worse. Like, scare small children worse. Let me put it this way, when I went back to the pharmacy today to pick up some cortisone cream and benadryl I took the cream up to the counter and the following conversation ensued...

Mirth: Hey, will this cortisone cream help with this reaction I'm having?
Young Man behind counter: What are you reacting to?
Mirth: A moisturizer.
Young Man: It should, but hang on and let me ask the pharmacist to make sure.
He then walks further behind the counter to where the pharmacist is.
Young Man: Hey, will this cream help this woman with an allergic reaction? She's reacting to a moisturizer she used.
Pharmacist: Yes, it should.
At the point, the pharmacist starts walking toward me while reading the box and looks up mid-sentence.
Pharmacist: Yes, this should work for your...OH! You really DO have a reaction don't you? Wow. (At this point, she has completely stopped in her tracks and is looking at my face.)
Mirth: Yes. Yes I do. So this will work?
Pharmacist (pausing while staring) Yeeeeesss, but you might want to take some Benadryl as well. Yes, I would take the Benadryl and use the lotion. But if that (oh my goodness, my face is a "that"?) doesn't get any better you need to go to a doctor. That must be so painful. Does it itch?
Mirth: Yep. It's driving me nuts.
Pharmacist: Wow (big pause). Yes, take the Benadryl for sure, that's going to make the most noticeable difference the quickest. But no driving because it can make you sleepy.
Mirth: Thanks. I'll just take my Quasimodo self over to the aisle where the Benadryl is.
Pharmacist: Yes, do. Good luck with that.

I think it's safe to say that it might be a tad noticeable. And also, kudos to the young man for looking me in the eye and not reacting at all to my swollen, red rashy face. And don't worry about me driving under the influence, I'll be trying to avoid going out in public for a few days until I stop scaring small children. It probably doesn't help that every time someone does a double take I want to throw my hand up and shout "Do not look upon me! I Am NOT an animal!" So far, I have resisted. But there's not guarantees for tomorrow.

What are they teaching kids these days?

I was out showing houses on Saturday morning for a few hours and then met Mister C, Master J and my in-laws at a local pizza joint for lunch. Because I was otherwise occupied, Mister C took Master J to his guitar lesson with Music Man. Since I arrived late, I hadn't heard any previous discussion of how it had gone and what he had learned. Hence, the following...

Mirth: Hey J, so what did you learn at your lesson?
MJ: I learned how to use my middle finger!
Mirth: (choking on pizza) Whaaa?
MJ: I learned how to use my middle finger!
Mirth: Awesome dude! Now you can get your driver's license!
MJ: What?
In-laws and Mister C are now laughing.
Mirth: Never mind dude, good job on learning to use your middle finger.

And yeah, I know I'm childish, welcome to my world.

Only 28 more days until elections

This showed up in my email today thanks to Mamoo...


SEASON'S GREETINGS

T'was the night before elections
And all through the town
Tempers were flaring
Emotions all up and down

I, in my bathrobe
With a cat in my lap
Had cut off the TV
tired of political clap-trap

When all of a sudden
There arose such a noise
I peered out my window
Saw Obama and his boys

They had come for my wallet
They wanted my pay
To give to the others
Who had not worked a day!

He snatched up my money
And quick as a wink
Jumped back on his bandwagon
As I gagged from the stink

He then rallied his henchmen
Who were pulling his cart
I could tell they were out
To tear my country apart!

'On Fannie, on Freddie,
On Biden and Ayers!
On Acorn, On Pelosi'
He screamed at the pairs!

They took off for his cause
And as they flew out of sight
I heard him laugh at the nation
Who wouldn't stand up and fight!

So I leave you to think
On this one final note—
IF YOU DON'T WANT SOCIALISM
GET OUT AND VOTE !!!!

Wait, what?

I picked up Master J after school today and we started talking about his day. I asked him how it was (Good!), how he did on his spelling and vocab tests (Great!), how was his lunch (Okay, it wasn't the right one). Anyway, the kids have a six day rotation schedule of music, art, p.e. and library and today was a p.e. day. Annnnddd....

Me: So what did you guys do in p.e. today?

MJ: We played football.

Me: Cool. Have you done that before?

MJ: No. Today we learned how to play it. We learned how to punt, how to throw the ball and how to hike it.

Me: Did everyone get to do everything?

MJ: Yep. I'm not very good at throwing the ball. It's aerodynamic but it's hard to throw. Some kids already knew how but I've never thrown one before (oh my goodness, what kind of parent am I?)

Me: Oh, that's too bad. But at least you got to do it. So did you punt it?

MJ: Yeah and I did okay with punting it.

Me: Uh-huh. And did you get to hike it?

MJ: Yeah. I'm not a very good hiker.

Me: Why's that?

MJ: Because I get out of breath too easily going uphill.

Me: Really? Why would...wait, what?

MJ: Ahahahahhahaha!

Me: For the love of...you think you're pretty funny don't you?

MJ: Yeah! I'm the punniest kid on the team! Hahahahahahaha!

Me: I'll bet you are...

I Knew It!

My goofiness is genetic...

Mamoo went grocery shopping earlier today to restock her (already full) pantry. When she arrived back home, my dad wasn't at home so she called him on his cell. When he told her that he would be home in two minutes, she asked him if he would help her bring in the groceries that were in her car.

She went into the house with her arms full and started putting things away. A few minutes later, my dad came into the house with his arms full. Mamoo turned around and saw him and said "Papa! I just bought toilet paper, milk and bread! Why would you buy it too?"

Yeah, I really didn't stand a chance did I?

Blonde

I worked in my team leader's office today to help them out since he's currently under staffed. He has one gal working with him right now in an administrative capacity. We'll call her 'K'.

It's a pretty small office and there were three of us working so it was close quarters. I was working on the offers that had come in over the last few days. All of the properties I was dealing with were REOs and all of them had multiple offers. In a multiple offer situation, the seller (bank) then asks us to get the "highest and best offer" from each of the potential buyers. One of the tasks I had to do early this afternoon was to call the buyer's agents and let them know the seller's were asking for this.

For the most part, when I called the buyer's agents, they answered their phone themselves. There were one or two that were answered by an assistant and then transferred, but they were in the minority. So getting through the calls went pretty quickly. K and I were talking in between calls because she was also showing me how to submit offers to the sellers. She was sitting about two feet to my left. Scott was about two feet to my right at his desk. The phone rang non-stop all day. It was basically controlled chaos.

I was about halfway through my list of calls when I came across an agent named Mike and started dialing his number. K was still talking to me as I dialed. Her phone rang about the same time as I put my phone to my ear after dialing. One ring later, a gal answers my phone call and I ask to speak with Mike. She immediately tells me there is no one there by that name, I must have a wrong number. I apologize and hang up. I turn back to K who is just finishing up her phone call and finish what we were saying. Then I look back at my paper to figure out if there's another number for Mike. As I'm looking, I'm talking to K...

Me: I can't figure this out, I must have dialed something wrong.
K: You have a bad number?
Me: I guess so. I didn't get the guy. Hmmm.....Oh! I know what I did! I dialed the wrong agent.
K: What do you mean?
Me: I dialed the selling agent instead of the buyer's agent!
K: Were you looking for Mike?
Me: Yeah.
K: Did they tell you that you dialed a wrong number?
Me: Yeah. I'm an idiot.
K: Oh my god! You dialed me!
Me: That was you?
K: That was me!
Me: How did I not hear you next to me?
K: How did I not hear you?

Both of us break down laughing.

Scott (without turning around) Oh. my. god. You two cannot sit together, your blondness is rubbing off on each other.

More uncontrollable laughter from both of us.

Scott (still not looking at us) I can't believe you two.

Apparently he doesn't know me well enough yet to expect this type of interaction. Mister C probably could have given him a heads up.

Today's joke is brought to you by Master J

While eating a dixie cup earlier today...

MJ: What kind of weather would "Ice Cream Town" get?
Me: I have no idea.
MJ: Sprinkles!
Me: Good one.
MJ: I know.
Me: What else you got?
MJ: What kind of weather does "Car Town" get?
Me: I don't know.
MJ: Oil Showers!
Me: Ummm, not really funny.
MJ: I know. I only thought about that one for 2 seconds. The good one took 4 seconds.
Me: Yeah, the good ones usually take a little more thought.
MJ: Yup. (pause) Sprinkles. Hahahaha! I'm funny!

More than you know little man.

Lesson in Geography

I almost forgot the best thing that happened yesterday. You might want to set your coffee down for this one.

In school yesterday we were discussing the concept of meridian lines & baselines, as established by Thomas Jefferson. It's kind of a long discussion, there are a lot of new people in the class, and it's not the most invigorating subject. So, I kind of get why this gal must not have been paying as much attention as perhaps she should have. However, sometimes it's just better to sit quietly and observe.

Teacher: So, in the 1770s what mode of transportation would Jefferson have used if he wanted to travel from the colonies to London?
Gal in the back, loudly: Horse!
Raucous laughter erupts.
Gal in the back, less loudly: Wagon?
More raucous laughter.

Yeah, sometimes it's better to just sit back and take notes.