Kids Change You

Lately, in the back of my mind as I have "conversations" with Eleanor, I keep thinking, "Before having a child, I never in a million years would have thought these words would be coming out of my mouth."

Gems like:

• "How many times have I told you?!? Stop licking the window!"
• "Eleanor, stop. That is private, and Strawberry does not belong in a private place." (As Eleanor shoves her little Strawberry Shortcake doll down my shirt and into my bra.)

And many, many more....

Bright Light

Keith took this picture a few weeks ago, when he noticed the light streaming in through the window.

This picture gives me the impression of contentment. All is well and good.

Except that there's only one bottle of wine in the rack. I must rectify that...

Is It Really That Hard?

Why is it, every time I place something Very Important in a Very Special Place so I can NOT lose it ... I can never remember where that very special place?

On the other hand, I'm also capable of losing things that I use all the time. Where are you, glasses? I miss you!

You Know You're Getting Old When ....

... your sister IMs you that LBJ is doing a book signing at Borders and she is probably going to go.

You immediately picture Lyndon Baines Johnson instead of LeBron James.














Photo credit: wikipedia.org

Macabre, But Sensible

Over the weekend, Keith and I were running some errands. We were stopped at a red light next to the entrance to a large cemetery, and I glanced over and saw a sign in the window of the offices. It said:

Free Fill Dirt.

and listed a phone number.

I had never really thought about it, although it makes sense they'd have plenty of high quality dirt to give away. Still gives me the chills, though.

You're Not Allowed to Have an Opinion

You know what's been annoying lately? With Eleanor's birthday approaching, acquaintances have started the (wink wink, nudge nudge) "Guess it's time for the next one!"

Our families and close friends can joke about it. Like when my Mom "casually" remarked last week that, when my older sister turned a year old, my Mom was already pregnant with me. But then she did think a moment, and remembered that she was on a two-year maternity leave and she was trying to fit two babies into one maternity leave. I don't have that motivation.

But I've heard it from a few people that I only see once in a great while, with whom I'm not particularly close (none of them know about this blog, for instance), and that's just annoying. Whether my uterus is currently occupied or not is really not any of your business. Nor do you need to know if the occupancy status will be changing any time soon. Why do people think this is an appropriate, casual topic of conversation?

It's said along the lines of "Can you believe the weather?" or "How about that local sports team?" People, please remember that a woman's reproductive organs are NOT good water cooler talk. Just sayin'.

Not Very Fortunate

I got lunch from Tea House Noodles the other day (be forewarned that their graphics have sound effects, so you might not want to click the link at work if others sit close by). I really wanted the pad thai noodles with peanut sauce, but decided to try something healthier and get the noodles with miso broth and tofu. Big disappointment; it just wasn't very flavorful at all. So I know this means I'll order out from them again, sooner than I normally would, so I can satisfy my pad thai cravings.

But anyway, a fortune cookie comes with the meal. After setting aside the remainder of my bland noodles, I was looking forward to the tasty cookie, as well as the fortune. The crunch and sweetness didn't disappoint, but the fortune was ... not a fortune. At all. It said:

"A movie would be a great way to relax this weekend."

What?!? How is that a fortune? Plus, we're already going camping this weekend. You know nothing of my weekend plans, Fortune Cookie! Much less what I find relaxing. Maybe I would rather relax with a good book, or by cooking, or by running a marathon. (ha!) Or maybe I'm blind.

Maybe you should stop making assumptions about my lifestyle, and just tell me what is going to happen in the future! I don't care if it comes true or not; if it were very specific and it did come true, I would actually find that quite creepy. But no more of this banal advice. Give me a real fortune next time! And by next time, I mean Monday afternoon when I pick up some peanut pad thai for lunch .....

Like Catching the Mafia on the Run

I hope I'm not being overambitious, but after waffling for a few weeks, I finally signed up for the Run Wild for a Cure 5k the weekend after the Flying Pig 10k.

To have your registration materials mailed and avoid the registration table melee at the event (which was a nightmare the other year we did this race), you had to sign up by midnight tonight, so that made up my mind for me. As I was filling out their online form, I got to the Additional Information section. The first few questions were typical enough (Runner or Walker? How'd you hear about us? Do you plan on using your own personal timing chip?) and then the 4th question was a shock. It was actually a statement with three options:
I have entered the CORRECT INFORMATION for this individual:*
Yes, it is All Correct
Yes, Except for the Email (It is not correct for this individual)
No, Most or All is Incorrect

Really? Is it that much of a problem that people knowingly fill out the forms with completely incorrect information, and then admit they do?!? It reminds me of hearing about how mob guys were always caught on tax evasion, because there was some checkbox or something on their taxes that said something along the lines of "I have no other source of income." And then when their "side business" came to light, even if they couldn't be prosecuted for nefarious dealings, they got nailed on tax evasion.

Not really sure how that applies to registering for a 5k, though .....

WASP-Approved

"White people do love the Home and Garden Show!"

A few weeks ago we were at my older sister's apartment. The radio was playing in the background as I went to the dining room to grab more food. (She's a great cook!) I was in the middle of dishing up more of the sausage stromboli, seasoned with garlic and fresh herbs, when a commercial for the local exposition center came on. It filtered through slowly, I realized belatedly that I heard,

"White people do love the Home and Garden Show!"

I couldn't believe the advertisers had been so straightforward about their target market! It was a bold and pretty offensive move.

Of course, the end of the story is much more bland. After listening a little longer, I realized the announcer had actually said, "Why do people love the Home and Garden Show?"

My question now is: What people, exactly? Is the Home and Garden Show equally appealing to all demographics?

Christmas Procrastination Techniques

When it comes to Christmas again, I always fondly remember the ways I would procrastinate in studying for exams in college.

Elf bowling was probably my favorite. Silly and addictive, it saved me from hours wasted on actually revising my essay and learning topics of study. So if you need something to procrastinate from this holiday season, enjoy!

Hazards of the Doctor's Office

My perception of the doctor's office has been shaped by the fact that, for the most part, I am a healthy person. The doctor's office is someplace you go when you're not well, and they make you better. In general, it's a place I don't see the inside of very often. When I do, it's usually for another sinus infection or, say, breaking my finger.

This has changed since I've been pregnant. I'm at the doctor's office all the time now, it feels like. And not for any reason other than the fact that I'm still pregnant. I don't have any complaints or symptoms that need addressing, I just go in because I have another scheduled appointment.

It had never really occurred to me before that there's hazards to hanging around the doctor's office too much. Because you know who spends a lot of time there? Sick people! And the elderly. The elderly who really shouldn't be driving. Their ancient, enormous cars fill the parking lots of doctors' offices across the country.

I had another check-up this past week. It went well. I'm still pregnant. The doctor said the baby was a "good size." I haven't figure out yet if that's a euphemism for "rather large" or really just a good size. I'm not sure if I want to narrow it down.

When leaving the medical building, I pulled up to the left-turn lane. The driveway to the building is three lanes wide—one lane for incoming traffic, a center lane for outgoing traffic turning left or going straight, and the right-hand lane for outgoing traffic turning right. So I'm in the center lane, waiting for the light to turn green so I can turn left and be on my way.

The light turns green in surprisingly short order, and I'm just starting to pull out and curve left .... when I notice that there's another outbound car on the left-side of me, also turning left at the light.

Which would be fine, except that lane is for INCOMING traffic. Not that basic traffic rules stopped this elderly woman from calmly going out the inbound lane, and gracefully turning left onto the road.

What could I do? I also turned left, right along-side her, and into the curb lane. It's a good thing that we were turning onto a street that had four lanes, so there were two lanes headed in our direction, and we could each turn into one. The situation was only marked by its complete lack of alarm or distress. I'm driving alone in my car, wondering "Did that really just happen?". But she drives calmly on, no one honks or shakes a fist .... and I'm left to ponder the hazards of visiting a place where the elderly are known to congregate.

I will not be visiting a bingo hall anytime soon.

Didn't See That Coming

"I should wear more black eyeliner and mascara."

--Aloud musing from my husband, as we watched part of a Greenday concert on TV.

In the Name of Science

The world is truly an amazing, unfathomable place. Every day, scientists are learning more about the natural wonders it contains, and its complex and multi-faceted workings.

Similarly, I continue to be amazed every day at the stupidity* of the human race. Even though the "Creation Museum draws thousands" through its gilded doors, to hear "two angelic characters who declare, 'God loves science!'", I'm having a hard time coming up with a truly monstrous personal story about the sad state of humanity. I'm sure I've seen plenty, but apparently I'm blocking them all out.

So instead, I give you The Darwin Awards. Truly superhuman feats, worthy of banishment from the gene pool. Below, just one of the many Darwin Award arguments for why humans should NOT be considered a highly developed species:

(26 August 2006, Leicester, England) Darren's death was a mystery. The 33-year-old was found slumped in the hallway of his house, bleeding from stab wounds to his chest. Police initially assumed that an assailant had attacked him, but they could find no supporting evidence. A year later, the inquest revealed why Darren can stake his claim to a place among the winners of the Darwin Award.

Darren had called a friend, but minutes after he hung up, rang back to ask for an ambulance. The front door was ajar, and Darren was found lying near a bloodstained lock-knife he had purchased whilst on holiday in Spain. Forensics investigators saw no indication of a struggle, and the coroner reported that the stab wounds seemed to be self-inflicted. However, Darren had shown no suicidal tendencies.

His wife, who was on holiday at the time of the incident, cleared up the mystery, and revealed why our subject will go down in history as a Darwin Award winner. As she was leaving for the holiday, she remembered Darren wondering whether his new jacket was 'stab-proof'.

That's right. Darren had decided to find out if his jacket could withstand a knife attack. Did he choose to test his jacket while it was draped over the back of a chair? No, our man decided that the best approach would be to wear the garment and stab himself. Sadly, his choice of armor proved less resistant to a sharp blade than he had hoped.

The coroner reached a verdict of accidental death by 'misadventure'.

*BlogFriday Word: Stupidity

A Little Frivolity: Dancing with the Stars

Okay, enough about the running! I can talk about other things, I swear;)

I'm very excited that "Dancing with the Stars" is back! It's just such a fun show. I know they have a UK version, too. Is there one that airs in New Zealand, Bren? Otherwise, this post won't make a whole lot of sense to you. Sorry!

This season my favorite is Helio, the racecar driver (shown mid-jive with dance partner Julianne). I didn't know anything about him before the show, but he's a great dancer and he always looks like he's having such a fantastic time.

The show always makes me wish we had more time/money to take dance lessons and, well, just get out and dance! At first I hated to go out on weeknights because the dog was locked in his crate for hours at a time. It was hard to justify that to myself just so I could go dancing. But now that he is free to run around while we're gone, we'll have to try and get out a little more often.

Although we know some swing-dancing, I'd love to learn more complicated moves. I'd also like to learn more ballroom like the tango, the mambo, etc. Plus, it will be a great activity for the winter, when I'm not running so much looking for indoor entertainment.

Five-Fingered Idioms

I think that yesterday was the low-point in my recovery. Or at least I hope so. The day of the injury I got by first on adrenaline, and then spent the rest of the day lying around feeling sorry for myself. Then yesterday I worked a full day. Doing a little typing or answering the phone didn't hurt too much, but after 8 accumulated hours of hand use, I was in pain and ready for a break.

Luckily, I have the best pets in the entire world. I got home and took a nap on the couch. The dog slept behind the crook of my knees, and the cat curled up in front of my stomach. It was heaven.

Today I'm feeling marginally better. Yesterday I wasn't sure if I could make it through a whole day of work, and today it's already past noon and I'm feeling good, so hopefully that means I'm on the mend. I go back for a check-up next Tuesday, so I think there's a good chance I'll have the splint off before my brother-in-law's wedding, which would be a definite plus.

Since hurting my hands, I've spent a lot of idle moments thinking about all of the hand/finger-related sayings we use that now have a unique meaning for me in my appendage-maimed state. Things like:

• Keep your fingers crossed!
• Five-finger discount (for me, would that be less than 100% off, since my fingers are at less than full capacity?)
• I know ___ like the back of my hand
• I have ___ in the palm of my hand (not a place you'd want to be at the moment)

Feel free to suggest any other relevant and/or irreverent phrases.

Dollar Dog Night

For my dad's birthday yesterday, we (me, Keith, and my parents) went to an Indians' game. Although it rained earlier in the day, it turned out to be great weather in the evening--cool, with a slight breeze.

The Indians lost a close game to the Red Sox. But it was enjoyable because the stadium was full and the crowd was rowdy. Of course, the reason we were all there: Dollar Dog Night.

After last night, there's two things I'd like to share with you:

1. My friends, I ate wayyyy too many hot dogs, all covered in spicy stadium mustard. Seemed like a good idea at the time. And probably will next time a Dollar Dog Night rolls around. I have a short memory for the ill effects of a food coma.
   
2. Just in our small section, we saw two women wearing pearls with their t-shirts and jeans. What's the deal with that?
   

The Croc Discussion Continues

Why is it that people only seem to remember the posts where I rant and rave on completely inane topics?

Almost a year ago, I blogged about my hatred of Crocs. Surprisingly enough, even though I pronounced them an abomination, they're still around and ridiculously popular. And people are still writing articles about them (including me, I guess) and I've received a few links lately.

I was reminded of them when Keith and I went to Cedar Point this past Saturday. As we walked up to the front entrance, I began scanning the crowd to play one of our favorite Cedar Point past-times--spot all of the couples who have dressed alike. Why is this so popular? I don't know. But it always happens at Cedar Point, and it gives you something to think about while waiting in line for rides, which is very, very important.*

This year, Keith also suggested we count all the pairs of Crocs that we see infesting the park. I was surprised to notice that most of them were sported by young (adolescent and under) kids. Does this mean that adults have seen reason, but that Crocs will continue to live on because the younger generations have embraced them whole-heartedly?

Either way, they're still ugly and I hate them. Recently Amy sent me an article from the Washington Post called "By Executive Order, Crocs Aren't Chic." If Bush wears them, that is NOT changing my attitude.

After Croc-spotting at Cedar Point (which is a sport, unlike line jumping), Keith saw an article this morning at Slate.com about "How Crocs Conquered the World." Apparently everyone agrees that they're ugly. The real question is whether the comfort is worth it. But this article quotes podiatrists as saying they're not good for your feet--their fabulous comfortableness is just an illusion of supportive footwear.

So, in conclusion, Crocs are still the ugliest footwear around and now you don't even have the excuse that they're good for your feet. Don't wear them. End of story.


* Surprisingly, we didn't see all that many couples dressed alike, or a platoon of Crocs. Instead, everyone was wearing shirts with "Hollister" emblazoned across their chests. Who knows what will be the de rigueur Cedar Point garb next time we go?

1st Ever Annual

I remember having this argument when trying to start a literary journal on-campus. Myself and the other editor pimped our writing contest as the "First Ever Annual" contest for the journal. Others argued that it couldn't actually be an annual event until the second year. Until then, it's a one-time only thing. So a "first annual," according to these people, is an impossibility.

I was just reminded of this because blogger is pimping the Pixelodeon Fest that's being run by someone they know. (Ahhh, to know the right people.) In the description, it says:

Pixelodeon is an annual independent video festival recognizing innovation, inspiration, and community in global online video. This is our inaugural year!

So is this correct or incorrect? Does anyone really care either way? At least if it's wrong, I'm not the only one to ever make that mistake.

Return to Sender

Before I start my rant about our U.S. Postal Service, I have to add a disclaimer: my father-in-law is a postal carrier. I know that many--probably most--are wonderful, dedicated people who do a fantastic job and make our everyday lives a little easier.

However, that is not the case with our mail carrier. I was always taught that, under certain circumstances, the mailbox is a two-way communication device. If the mail has been delivered to the wrong house, or if you have a package delivery slip that needs to be signed, you can leave these items in the mailbox and your postal carrier will respond appropriately. He or she will take away the incorrect mail, or deliver the package.

At our house, this does not happen. When we leave mail in the mailbox, that's exactly where it stays.

Does our mailman think that we're too lazy to bring in all of our mail? Or maybe, because we don't get a lot of mail, he thinks we like to leave some in the box for the next day. To tide us over, as it were.

So now our dilemma is that, if mail is incorrectly delivered to our house, we have absolutely no way to get it back to its rightful owner without excessive time and effort on our part. The other week, I walked a piece of mail a block over and dropped it in their mailbox. Even though I had to walk the dog anyway, I was still irritated. I spent the whole time thinking, "This isn't my job! I shouldn't be delivering mail!"

We've tried leaving the mailbox open, with the mail sticking up so he notices it. We've tried folding the mail over the edge of the box, so it's hanging halfway out. If anyone has another other ideas of how we might convince our mail carrier we actually left that mail there for a reason, I'm open to suggestions.

Words of Wisdom

I was reminded last week of this eternal truth: If you're stopped at a red light, the best way to make it change is to start digging in the depths of your bag for something. I think it follows along the lines of "a watched pot never boils."