Sunday Bloody Sunday, or My New $1000 Food Processor

I couldn't decide on a title.  So you get two.  Just because I have an abundance of love for you all.  (Or I'm just wordy.)


And as thought-provoking as the first title is, this post is not about U2's international hit or the political machinations and the horrific death toll that inspired it all those long years ago in Ireland.  (And if I've already lost you, that's okay...I'm totally asleep right now so you're just lucky I'm blogging this at all.  LUCKY!)


But then, you might have already guessed that from the second title.

Okay what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, the day I almost got kicked out of a restaurant.  Because of Mr. Eggshells.  Who won't admit it was his fault, even though it totally was.  And then to prove it I had to cut my finger off.  Well not off, but a lot.  Well not a lot, but some.  It HURT, darn it!

It all started with breakfast.  We went out to the local diner to get a good portion of breakfast-y goodness...me with a normal sane breakfast omelette and Mr. with some totally disgusting raw hunk of meat and fried eggs.  *shudder*  We've stayed married this long by a) his only having that kind of meal at restaurants and b) my staring adoringly into his eyes so I don't catch sight of that food at any point during its consumption.

Anyhow, there we were at breakfast and, after having eaten, were finishing our drinks.  The empty plates were toward the edge of the table, and the waitress came by and double-checked with me before picking up my plate, completely ignoring Mr's absolutely empty plate.

A little disconcerted, Mr. moved the plate closer to the edge of the table.  Another waitress came by and took my now-empty toast plate from the table, completely ignoring his plate again.  As she left, the look on his face was priceless, and so like any good wife, I laughed at with him.  He held up his hand to make sure he wasn't invisible, and then told me what was going on.


"They've been to my website:  Keep your hands off my plate, bitch."


My giggling was getting harder at that, since between that and the face he was making, it was so so funny.  And then he sealed it, by saying after the perfect amount of pause for effect:


"dot com"


I LOST IT.   Completely.  I was laughing so hard I was crying, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the busy place.  Mr. was looking more and more like he wanted to bolt and leave me to my solo embarrassment.   This went on for several minutes until I got myself under control. 


And just as I did, it was at that moment that our waitress came by and without even stopping or commenting, picked up his plate.


I looked at Mr. and he looked at me.


"She's not online."


I lost it AGAIN, and Mr. got up to pay the bill.    


****************************


So later that day, we were doing the usual Sunday home stuff and my old friend, "accident" decided to pay us a visit.  It was while I was happily and FINALLY getting to play with my post-Christmas food processor.  I'd made pesto and shredded some zucchini while Mr. was prepping the Thai peanut chicken that would be our lunches for the week.


It was while I was washing the dishes that the wonderful blade that sliced through the pine nuts so beautifully, leaped out of the sink and attacked my right pinkie (apparently spellchecker doesn't believe that pinky is correct...I swear I'ma fire her soon).   


I would have liked to report that this sort of event was so far removed from my life, and that this was the first time I'd had such an accident, but I can't.  See, I can't even be original about these things any more, since about 15 years ago I sliced the EXACT SAME finger open with a food processor blade.  (And no, before you ask, it was not on purpose either time...despite how much fun it is in the Emergency room here in this very scary town, it's not my favorite way to spend the evening.)


After the initial home triage and determining that yes, it would need stitching, we made our way to the hospital...3 minutes away from home, not an accident...I married a Boy Scout/Marine who is awesome at preparedness. (I re-wrote that sentence like 15 times because no matter how I put it, it sounded like I was declaring myself a bigamist.  Which I might be, you don't really know now do you?  By the way, do multiple personalities count toward that?  Cuz we could be very well past bigamy between Mr.'s and my personalities...).


Okay where was I?  Oh yes, bleeding to death in the meth capital of the county on a Sunday evening in the only hospital.    I do have to segue here...it seems that every single time I end up in the Emergency room (which, with my usual level of accident-prone-ness is surprisingly seldom), I get asked if I have a head injury.  Now, that would make sense if I in any way looked like I did, but it's usually after I start answering questions in Triage.  Something about the way I act, joking and friendly, makes people think I have a brain injury.  There's probably a lesson to be learned from that, and it's probably time one of you did.  Because I really have no idea.


I was finally brought back to treatment and was dealt with well...they seemed to understand my personal brand of humor.  Although the doctor did scoff when I had less than half the anticipated stitches but in my defense I couldn't count because I was bleeding out of one of my counters.


I did learn a new rule.  When you have to go to the hospital, you get whatever you want for dinner.  I'm not sure this was a good lesson for me to learn, because it seems a little drastic just to get a milkshake.  

I Wrote Something!

SQUEE!  My lovely Facebook friend is hosting some of my writing on her blog.  Check it out at Martha's Digital Creations.   :)


Martha has some really cool crafty stuff there as well...check the rest of her site out!  


(Okay so announcing I wrote something is kinda dumb, but it's first thing in the morning and I'm not stellar yet.  Except for my ability to sit upright on a balance ball chair...which is pretty amazing since I can barely keep my balance on level ground...)

Two Things

Thing 1


I have about 17,987 (approx.) blog posts I've been working on, but they've all been while I'm doing everything else in the world.   They're all in my head.  At some point I may get them down onto paper (um, how archaic), erm typed into my spiffy word processor and then you will benefit from them.  Truly you will.  Even if it's only to think "Wow, I'm way so much less f*ed up than her."  Assuming you swear.  If you don't you might use a different word.


Thing 2


I just had to call two different customer service departments to find out where my supposedly-delivered package may have gone.  Since it wasn't actually delivered as far as we can see.  I was not upset in any way shape or form, mostly just following the process I thought I needed to in order to get a resolution.  I know that customer service people are trained to speak in a non-confrontational manner, including apologizing for inconvenience, etc.


My experience with both reps was good...but throughout the whole thing - with both of them, mind you - I got the impression that they were trying to make sure they weren't going to become my verbal punching bag.  Since I wasn't even starting to sound upset, I'm guessing that it's a knee jerk reaction because they do get those types.


Which makes me mad.  I mean, stuff happens.  It really does.  I just don't get why anyone would feel the need to freak out at some person on the other end of the phone because something didn't go their way.  Most reputable companies have a resolution process...and their c.s. people get paid to help you through that...not to take shit-storms of abuse because you didn't get your *insert random item*.    


I'm not perfect by any means (as anyone who has been near me at work can attest, and I can't even completely blame it on PMS or anything either, darnit), but I try to make sure that I'm not crapping all over other people even when I'm not happy about something.   


Perspective is a good thing.


So is karma. 


(And okay, Thing 2 was a bit of a soapbox rant, but I can admit it.  Plus, my blog!  Ha!)


Thing 3


Ha!  Fooled you.  Thought of another thing.  If I continue to eat Quiznos Honey Bourbon Chicken and subsequently each time spill some sauce on my shirt, which incidentally, stains and does not come out, I think I will need to go shopping.  Maybe the weekend my husband is in an all day Saturday conference for Toast Masters (which in my head I pronounced as Teletubbies).  And now I'm laughing out loud, and not able to proofread this. 




Thing 4


There's really not a Thing 4, it's just acknowledgement that I can't count.  Which is not news at all, to anyone.

Short and Sweet

Tonight, after fighting with my newly re-OS'd computer and getting printers up and running because all I wanted to do was print some coupons, the following conversation ensued:


Me:  What was the thing that had the cloud that had the 2 free things?


Mister:  Drop box?


Me: Yup that's it.


The moral:  My husband speaks tired me.  Which is a really really good thing.  :)

Cookie and the Coloring Book

Before I post about this, I need to confide in y'all that I miss the "u" that Canadian words have.  It makes them seem fuller or more balanced or something.  I no longer type them in by accident anymore but I still think it looks strange to type "color" instead of "colour".  I also think it's fairly heinous of Microsoft to make me choose one spell check language.  But that's a rant for another day.


Now onto the show.  Erm, story.


A few days ago one of my Facebook friends posted a NSFW link to a coloring book. Since I was at work, and despite the fact that we have relatively little issue around such things, I decided not to click it.  (Okay the real reason was that I was actually super-busy at work.  I know, right?  What's up with that??)


I did, however, feel the need to send it on to my work partner-in-crime.  You remember her from this post (and if you haven't read it, then you're behind and a bad reader.  No cookie for you.  Heh, get it?  Because it's FUNNY!).


I prefaced the link with the fact that it was not for children's viewing without some discussion and that she should make sure her impressionable youngsters did not get a full view without some dialogue.  


A coloring book seems innocuous enough, but this was an aid to discussing reproduction with children...and it was a coloring book of vaginas.

Oh baby, oh baby

Now I'm not anything like a prude, nor am I against understanding and knowledge.  I was taught the "facts of life" (you take the good, you take the bad...) age-appropriately and knew how babies were made from the age of 5 or so.  My parents encouraged questions and answered them without stigmatizing anything to do with the sex act.  I remember being at friends' houses and sharing their books on the birds and the bees (complete with cartoon people who looked nothing like Barbie and Ken).  Actually thinking about it now, those cartoon characters kind of looked like Peter Griffen.  Both of them.           


But I have to admit, the vagina coloring book is kinda weirding me out.  I mean, I get that it could be very useful...but I'm having trouble picturing some child sitting down and coloring in the anatomically correct hoo-hoo.  I can't imagine it holds any major attraction...it's not like a Disney Princess or Dora the Explorer.  There's nothing really tangible for a child to connect with.  And older kids, who might be around the timing to actually learn from it, would generally seem to be well past coloring stage.


In and among this confusion, I ship the link off to Cookie, mostly for a laugh, truly.  And of course, her pre-teen daughter walks in on her looking at it, full screen, vag-city.


"Ewwww MOM!"


The obvious connotation that her Mom spends the work day pre-occupied with sex aside, that seems to be a pretty clear indictment of the vagina coloring book...when the intended audience is really not all that interested.


And I'm not even going to tell you all about the sperm cookbook link I sent her too.  Suffice it to say, the interwebs are a vast and scary place, and Facebook is an automatic delivery system.

Half?

Recently, I had an interesting revelation when it came to my husband and I.  (No, not that we're totally adorable, even though that is true.  But I've known that for years so it doesn't quite count as a revelation.)


No, it's that it is overwhelmingly obvious he grew up with two siblings and I was raised with one.  (Although I should probably said he was raised, because we all know he never really grew up.   ;)  )


That's not the revelation.  Of course I knew that long before we were married.  But y'all should know by now that I build up to my huge announcements of life-altering proportions.  I mean, what's the point in cultivating a teensy bit of a flair for the dramatic if I'm never going to use it?  


Mr. Eggshells gave me three cookies in my lunch today.  See?  Proof positive!


No, it doesn't matter what kind of cookies they were (Oatmeal Rocks...and aren't you all jealous - and if you don't know what those are, just suffice it to say you are very very jealous!!!), but that there were three of them.  Not two, not four, but three.


To a person raised with two siblings, three - or multiples thereof - is the number of balance, harmony, and sharing.  To a person raised with one sibling, three is a number of immense confusion, adjustment and, dare I say it, fractional math.  I dared.


I never realized how much that particular concept had attached itself to everything I did until I married the Mister.  I allocate everything into the balance of my own paradigm.  Even numbers are fair, easily arranged, and comfortable to me.   That's why I buy four apples, and why when he buys three oranges I'm unconsciously yet frantically trying to figure out where the extra one goes.  (This week it went into an orange and fennel spinach salad with a raspberry vinaigrette that you're jealous of as well, by the way.)


But I digress.  The point is, that it's a complete revelation to me at age (40+) 29 that my childhood patterned so strongly and so subliminally that it actually causes me to acclimate to the "stressor".  


I have no idea if my purchasing or providing four items jars the Mister as much as three does to me.  I suspect not, because he's more comfortable with math than I am, and the fraction thingy doesn't drive him nuts.  Plus his OCDemon is weirder different than mine.


It does make me ponder, however, what other behaviors of mine are ingrained to this degree that I haven't figured out yet...


In the end however, I guess it doesn't really matter.  I got THREE cookies after all.  Yay!

Things and Stuff

This is a guilt post.  I know, I know, it's my blog and I shouldn't feel guilty but I haven't posted since mid-January.  MID-JANUARY.   You people were just left hanging and I didn't even come back and check on you.  No Kitty, that's a bad Kitty!  (Yes, I've been watching Southpark, damn you Netflix streaming!)


So what's new?  Oh right this is really one-way communication unless y'all comment back.  Hey, there's an idea.  What do YOU all want me to talk about?  Leave me a comment or an email (ceriserose at gmail dot com) and suggest something.  I may not use it, but at least then I'll know who of you have opposable thumbs and who don't.  


Now on to why I'm posting.  I have no topic so today it's going to be all about things random.  


1.  I'm completely addicted to Pandora Radio.  If you haven't tried it, you absolutely should.  You set up a station or two based on artists you like and it gives you other similar artists in the mix and plays you all sorts of songs.  I've rekindled love for some artists I'd forgotten about and found many new ones.  (And in a related rhetorical question, just how many covers of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" are there anyway?!?)


2.  I've been having trouble getting back into the novel, but it's mostly due to storyline threads that I keep either changing or losing.  One of my favorite writers posted a picture of her work space on Facebook and it hit me.  I should be using post-it notes to keep track of the plot.  Only instead of a wall (since my work space is wherever my rear-end lands), I bought some neon-coloured (heh, Canadian) 11x14 poster board and will use those.  Since I'm trying to keep two separate storylines going before they converge, this should help immensely.  Since my head just doesn't manage that kind of convolution.

And aren't I a meaniehead for mentioning the book that I haven't finished writing and continuing to whet your appetites?  Yes, yes I am.  :)


3.  My house makes me crazy.  We've been spending a good deal of time doing renovations for the last several years and "stuff" just keeps getting moved from one pile to another, one room to another.  This Spring I've decided to just sit down and get real with all this stuff, and sort the crap out of it.  (It can't read, so unless one of you tells the stuff what my plans are, it shouldn't be forewarned and hide or multiply or something.  And you won't do that because you so don't want to awaken my ire.  Plus, just by reading my blog you are automatically entered on my side and must work with me not against me.)

Websites keep showing me ads for Professional Organizer Certification.  The Internet is just taunting me now.


4.  I have yet to get out my end-of-year/Christmas/Yule/New Year's letters.  (Actually I have yet to write one, but that's beside the point.)  I have a strong suspicion that those are not going to happen for several months.  I've decided that maybe I'll just do a late Summer one, since I've come to realize over the years, that September is when my mind and body re-set for the year.  Of course, most of you that know me, and know me well, know better than to hold your breath on that score.


5.   Wow, made it to 5.  Um, well this is getting really long, so I think I'll just stop and figure out what to actually write for next time.  :D

The Vet

We have four cats.  This was not by design, but rather by happenstance, for when one has two cats and one has two cats, the math makes four cats.  (They're all fixed so we're not talking multiplication here, and besides like I'd do hard math at this time of the night...sheesh, do you know me at all?)


Mixing the households went well enough at first, but feline relations tanked after a fairly traumatic few days where the humans left the rulers of the territory alone with one another and worse, with that person who keeps showing up and talking to us and ohmygod we will just die and ooh, treats, but wait those are mine, not yours and, and, and.


They're separated now when we're out, and have monitored visits with their jailers, erm, I mean human feeding units, present.  They have reached a tentative level of the Geneva conventions with one another, provided there is no aberrant sniffing going on.   Because goodness knows butt sniffing among felines is tantamount to war.  (You don't believe me?  Until you've cleaned up two unhappy cats covered in urine and blood at 1 a.m., you.just.don't.know.)


The only time they are of one accord is of course when they must face the horror of the veterinarian (okay I spelled that word incorrectly 6 different ways and still had spell check not provide the correct word.  FAIL - spell check's not mine.  I knew it was spelling incorrectly, but at least I knew it wasn't "subterranean".  And don't ask me how badly I spelled it because I won't tell you.  Also don't ask if I had to correct the spelling of subterranean either.)


January is the month of cat vaccinations in our house, which involves at least a day of preparation, and a day of recuperation for the 30 minutes they are out of the house.  And that's just the humanoids.


We start by making sure they're relatively presentable - claws trimmed to lessen any frantic swipes, coats brushed so the 15,000 pounds of hair they will drop in the stress of leaving the house might just be minimized.  Then there's finding all four cat carriers, and figuring out how to arrange the cats in various rooms so they can't hide nor can they figure out what is going on with the other cats.  Some earplugs for us, and we're set.


I won't describe trying to get them all in their carriers, because it exhausts me just thinking about it.  Once in, the yowling that had been mere whimpers punctuated with the occasional hiss now reaches "they're trying to kill me" point of at least 1000 decibels (hence the earplugs).  We bundle them off to the cars for the 10 minute trip through town, where we proceed to yowl back at them the whole way.  I have no idea if it makes them feel any better, but it makes me feel better and that's really the point, right?


The most trauma they experience is to then be in the vet office and have to come out of the dreaded carriers.  The horrifying nasty place is now the BEST PLACE EVER and they all usually have to be dislodged by one of us holding the cat and the other upending the carrier off them.  (It is rather funny though to watch their faces when they realize they've been thwarted by gravity once more.)


Thwart is a great word but it's awkward to type.  So is awkward.


Once they've been given their shots, and are happily back in their little plastic homes, they're much quieter.  We then pay a ridiculous amount of money  - although to be honest, we'd probably pay more if they offered housecalls for this kind of thing...because really (either that or I'm learning to give them shots myself...if they're going to hate me they might as well hate me for the whole enchilada, not just the carrier and vet's).  The ride home is generally pleasant, albeit a little surreal (until I realize the earplugs are still in).  We all come home and pass out for the balance of the day, exhausted.  


Fortunately the wee beasties are indoor cats and relatively healthy so there's very few trips in general.  The few we do take definitely make up for it in cat drama.   


(In spite of all this, they really are cute little things, when they're not being obnoxious.  They get it from Mr. Eggshells I'm sure.)
  

...and then Reality went and hit me upside the head...

A few years ago there was a commercial for Staples that ran during the November-December holiday season.  (If you're not familiar with it and want to see it, I'm sure it's out on the interwebs somewhere...but it's not important to this, because I'm a writer and can paint word pictures for you.  ;)  )  


The commercial itself was okay, but there was one part that made me laugh hysterically like a three year old discovering their uncanny ability to make adults do their bidding with repeated funny faces and/or pratfalls.   It's a relatively peaceful scene of a person puttering in the snow outside the house and a GPS device flings out of the sky and hits him on the head, causing him to fall down.  No, I'm not advocating laughing at violence or pain (at least not that I'm admitting out loud), but right at the point it hits, there comes a voice from the GPS saying "You have reached your destination."


Kills me.  Dead.  Every dang time.   Even sitting here recounting it, I'm laughing.   (Shut UP, I do *so* have a sophisticated sense of humor!)


The point of bringing this commercial to bear is that sometimes life hits us with a-ha moments where everything just clicks into place.  For me, many of these occur when I'm struggling with writing something, typically having to do with plot adjustments.  Of course, this is where I let the Muse* and my subconscious deal with it, and as a result, most of my a-ha moments come at the same time as the phrase "Ohgodisitmorningalreadyandwhereisthedamnsnoozebuttonanyway" is mumbled from under the duvet.  


*(tangent):  I've been wondering if I should name the Muse.  It seems rude to just be using a title when we work so closely together.  Plus, when I'm angry with her, it would probably make me feel better to yell right at her.  She probably needs a middle name too for that matter...
(end tangent)


I had another one of those epiphanal moments recently, but it didn't make me burst into joyous song and dance (like all the other ones do).  In fact it was more along the lines of "Oh crap, really?"  And after a few days of meditative contemplation, I'm ready to share.  


Somehow, without my actually being aware of it, I became a Cougar.  No, not a cougar like a wild animal - although some mornings my hair does look like I've been tearing around a jungle all night, but that's beside the point.  A Cougar, like a middle-aged woman on the prowl.


I know, right?  I don't know how that happened either.


Wait, what are YOU talking about?!?


I'm talking about the middle-aged.  (Let's face it, every woman has the potential to be a Cougar.  haha)  I'm not sure how it happened, but it sure did happen in the blink of an eye.  One minute I'm watching this music video and thinking the lead singer is really cute, and the next I'm realizing that I'm old enough to be his mother.


OLD.ENOUGH.TO.BE.HIS.MOTHER.


Then it was everywhere.  Pictures of film stars, the realization that actors and singers from my teens had grown children.


Of course, I did have to check and see if a married woman could actually be called a Cougar, and I was assured most intensely by a couple of people on Facebook that it was definitely a label that could be placed on a married woman.


Drat.  


However in the big scheme of things, I think Cougar is a better title than old cow, so I'll take it.

GladRags Giveaway

Okay another girly subject, but an important one (so boys, not sure if I can exempt you from this, but mercifully for you, it's short.  ;)  ).  


GladRags has fantastic eco-friendly and sustainable products, are based in my local area but ship worldwide, and promote health and education with regard to women's menstrual cycles.  They even have been working to bring sustainable solutions to African women (I can't imagine having to stay in the house during "that time of the month" simply due to lack of hygiene products!).


Even better, they're doing a giveaway!  Enter to win!


http://blog.gladrags.com/2012/01/05/spread-the-word-win-100-worth-of-gladrags/#more-1006


GladRags ROCKS!