Tuesday, November 25, 2008

The One Where My Mom and I Decide to Go Into Business Together...

My Mom and I have some great ideas. None of the come to fruition however, because they are too far fetched and half the time we do not even know what we are talking about.  Take for instance this IM exchange:

Me: B's brakes are out again.
Mom: Damn! Bro's turn signal is out again and that is dangerous.
Me: It is less dangerous than his brake lights being out.
Mom: I better have him check those too. Thanks.
Me: You are welcome. I am SO handy when it comes to cars.
Mom:  You are! You should get a side job doing it...
Me: Yeah, right.
Mom: and I will help. Two Women and a Wrench.
Me: Oh I like that name!  Do we even know what a wrench is?
Mom: Well, I do. And I think if you saw it you would too.  Yep we will get lots of work.
Me: I am pretty sure I know what one is.
Mom: You use it to loosen or tighten a pipe.
Me:  Too bad there aren't any pipes in a car (except maybe the exhaust)
Mom: We will just FIND some, then tell them that is their problem and bat our eyelashes at them.
Me: Good thing we have long eyelashes then.

Later that day, coincidentally, I got a newsletter from a blog called Cars for Girls. And the post shows the inside of the engine. So I send it to my mom:

Me: Doesn't look like there are any PIPES in there. ROFL
Mom: Well then "Two Ladies and a Screwdriver". Damn this starting a business is hard when you don't know anything.
Me: Except you always hear mechanics talk about wrenches. What do they use them for? Whom can we ask?
Mom: I know they use them. I will ask your bro and pretend it is for a contest or something.
Me: Like HE's gonna know.  Ha!*
Mom: I bet he does. Guys seem to pick up on that stuff.
Me: Have you met our guys? When is the last time bro worked on a car? I think I know more than him. Seriously.
Mom: I am trying to give them some macho cred.
Me: Okay, but you don't have to front with me.

I think it is safe to say my Mom and I won't be going into the car repair business anytime soon.  It is also safe to say we are huge dorks, especially when we try to be "hip" and use "street talk." Oh, and you would think since I subscribe to a blog called Cars for Girls, I could have easily found the answers to our questions, but I didn't even try. Because that's how I roll.

*My bro definitely knows more about cars than I do. I think.  And he is macho. He really is. All of the guys in our lives are macho.**

**And this has been a legal disclaimer brought to you, from me, to keep my ass from getting into trouble with the macho men in our lives.

Monday, November 24, 2008

The One Where I Am Mistaken for a Nurse...

We got free flu shots at the office the other day.  Such a great benefit until you stop and wonder - are they doing this to be kind or to insure that none of us get sick so that we are in the office every day?  Very slick, office people. Very slick.

So I head into the room where there is some assembly line action. Fill out form, rotate, sign paper, lift up sleeve, get jabbed.  The pharmacist for some unknown reason has about 5 smiley star pins on his lapel.  Who knows what those were for, however, it did make me wonder if he pulled out the "special" white coat for us? Was he getting dressed in the morning and thinking "I need the extra special professional look. Hmmm...I know! I will use the coat with all of the smiley star pins!"  Someone asked him for one of the pins, but he said he forgot to bring them. I think he forgot they were all stuck to his coat.

Anyhow, somehow I became the official hand-holder-calmer-downer person.  Like that official title?  I just happened to be sitting next to someone about to be poked when she grabbed my hand and asked me to hold hers.  So I did.  And, honestly, this guy was pretty good. That needle was in and out before you knew it and I swear you did not even feel a pinch. Maybe that is why he had so many stars.  So the other woman in the room had been petrified since she walked in. She told us numerous times that she is deathly scared of needles, can barely be in the room when her daughter gets shots and is terrified. I ask her why she is there. I mean really. You might just rather get the flu then go through such torture.  So I kindly ask her if she wants me to hold her hand since I am now proud of my new position and title.  She takes me up on the offer.  At the last minute, she decides she is strong enough to do it herself but informs us she doesn't want to know when the needle is going in.  I calmly talk her through it and she erroneously figures as to when she is being stabbed and makes a face which prompts me to say "You know that it is all done? The needle was out by the time you made that face."  She exclaims "wow, that was painless" and strolls out like it was never that big of a deal.  Smiley starred pin guy thanks me for my service, does not offer me a pin and so I am on my way.

I stroll back to my office wondering if I should just become a nurse and ponder what a little white hat would look like on me.*  Apparently, I was not the only one that thought I would look good in a nurse's hat, because the secretary outside my office asked me the following:

Her:  Dani, is a virus contagious?
Me: A virus?
Her: Yes, is it contagious?


It is important to note that this is a woman with three grown kids whom I could only imagine have been sick at some point in their lives. Multiple times I am sure. Did she never learn WHY they were sick or HOW they got sick? Color me puzzled.


Me:  Yes viruses are contagious. That is how you get sick.
Me: Are you worried because of that boy's rash?
Her: Yes.


The day prior someone in our office brought her boy to work because he had a "weird" rash and could not go to school. So she brought him to our office.  Makes sense. She then went around showing everyone the rash. Some people touched it. I call them stupid.  I did not touch it but did look at it.  Some people declared it was ring worm. It was not ring worm.  It was a rash due to a virus he had. Hence this conversation I am having.


Me: I don't think you have to worry.  He had a bacterial virus.
Her: [blank look]
Me: There are different types of viruses - airborne like cold, flu or bacterial, which I believe you can only get if you come into contact with the rash, skin, mucus, whatever.
Her: okayyyyyy
Me:  Why do you think you caught it?
Her: Well I am itchy.
Me: You are itchy because you are thinking of his rash just like you were itchy the other day because you saw a bug.
Her: You are right
Me: I know.

So there you have it. I am a nurse disguised as a legal professional. Who knew.  Who knows if anything I said made any kind of medical sense either, but it sure sounded good.

*I know nurses don't wear those hats anymore but I like the retro look, k?

Sunday, November 23, 2008

We All Scream for Ice Cream

Apparently there is a new diet I have not yet heard about it.  It involves eating mounds of ice cream before 10:00 a.m. on the weekends.

Every Saturday (or Sunday as I change the days to accompany my "workout schedule" which is in quotes because I intend to work out but never really do), my Mom and I go out to breakfast.  We go to the same place even though my brother, when allowed to accompany us, has pointed out that the place is overpriced.*  But here's the thing...it is right down the road from my Mom's house, the waitresses are really nice, they recognize us and they know our orders by heart (although I sometimes confuse them by changing my orders like I change my "workout schedule").  It was during these breakfasts that my Mom and I started to notice what we have dubbed as the "Early Morning Mounds of Ice Cream Diet."

We were casually chatting about our lives, silly men, blogs, and contests when I noticed a woman eating a LOT of ice cream.  I could not really believe what I was seeing was true, so I asked my mom to nonchalantly look. She confirmed that, indeed, the woman was eating a LOT of ice cream.  However, she was almost done so we could not be sure that it was the only thing she had eaten.  A couple of weeks later, same lady - same ice cream. And it was the ONLY thing she ate.  Big mounds of chocolate ice cream.  Okay, mystery ON.

A few more times, same lady.  Then one day as my Dad joined us, a DIFFERENT lady is eating all of this ice cream. We point it out to him. He says "huh."  Apparently the male species just is not that intrigued by the mystery ice cream diet.  My Mom mentions how there is a Weight Watchers' location right next door and maybe this is their special treat.  Look, I am familiar with WW and I do not believe anywhere in the plan are you supposed to have huge mounds of ice cream FOR BREAKFAST. Especially after you just weighed in.  Kind of defeats the whole purpose of changing your eating habits, don't you think?  But I am not ready to dismiss my Mom's theory because it is just too coincidental to see these women, right next to the WW, right after a meeting, in their crazy sweatsuit outfits, reading the paper and eating ice cream. Oh, did I mention that they all read the paper while doing this? Cause they do. It's a fact.

So every week, we go to lunch, my Mom and I. We do not witness these ladies every week.  That makes me forget about them until the next time we see them. Like yesterday.  Another new EMMICD** dieter came in and this time I saw the big mounds of ice cream being delivered to her. And I heard her ask for a straw.  A straw!  My Mom, who had unfortunately left the table at this time and missed the exchange, upon being informed what had happened queried "Why a straw? What is she going to do with that?"  "What do you THINK?", I cried, "She is going drink the melted ice cream.  There is no way someone can eat all that ice cream before it melts!"  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  And a straw.

So tell me...is there a special EMMICD out there that I have not yet heard about? Does it require eating mounds of chocolate (yes, only chocolate) ice cream with or without a straw, while reading a newspaper and just after a WW meeting gets out, while wearing a sweatsuit? Because I don't know about you, but to me it sounds like the cause of the problem, not a way to fight the problem.

But what do I know? I eat eggs for breakfast.

*FYI Bro - they have a new $2.99 breakfast special on the weekends - 2 eggs, 2 bacon, 2 sausage and toast. Watch out! They must have overheard your complaints.

**EMMICD stands for "Early Morning Mounds of Ice Cream Diet" in case you were not paying attention.

Friday, November 21, 2008

I Am a Vampire

No, this is not a Twilight related post. In fact, I have yet to read the book despite my love of all things vampire. I know. I am a traitor. But soon I will rectify that situation.

As for this post? It is about my stellar cooking skills of course.  And yet another roast.  Last Family Dinner Day I decided to make a less "slimy" roast for B. Anything to make that boy happy.  I found a 3 envelope pot roast crockpot recipe and set about making it.  The envelopes were Italian dressing, ranch dressing and peppercorn garlic.  That was my first clue this dinner would be wrong.  I chose to ignore that sign.  I kept the ingredients a secret from B because I did not want him to know I was putting anything remotely related to ranch or "dressing" in his food. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Indeed I went to great lengths to hide this, so even when we were at his parents house that day and his mom asked me what I was using I managed to vaguely say "ingredients" of "different kinds."  Sure, I sounded like an idiot and sure, B looked at me like he was catching on, but it was a small price to pay to get a good meal in that boy's belly.

So, B and I did a lot of running that day, looking at more houses.  I wanted to be back by 4 to put the vegetables in, but we didn't make it back until 5.  I open the crockpot to dump the vegetables in when, for some unknown reason, I decide the pot roast must be "flipped over". Why I decided this, I have no clue. I had not done that the previous two times I cooked it. The recipe didn't call for it.  I just decided it was a good idea.  It was not.  The pot roast, after having been cooking for 4 hours was very tender.  It fell apart on my spear thingy* and plopped back down into all the gravy which then splashed up on  my face.

Quickly I realized I COULD HAVE BURNED MY FACE so I madly wiped off my face and checked a mirror.  All was good.  Vegetables in.  Cooking continued. As for me, I decided to shower.  While in the shower this little spot over my lip and the inside of my entire right nostril starts burning like crazy. I try rinsing and washing to no avail.  I am showering and thinking that my face is burning off or something and cursing the time (about five minutes ago) I decided it would be a good idea to flip that roast.  My face was not melting and was not burning off.  Apparently some of the peppercorn garlic spice just got in there really good in the Great Splash of five minutes ago and my skin was not liking it.  That was my second clue that this dinner was going to be wrong.  I chose to ignore that as well.  All was good. Cooking continued.  I passed B in the hall and said "I burned my face with the roast." He scanned me over, decided it did not entail another hospital trip and said "huh" nonchalantly.  He must be used to my mishaps.

Dinner was done and served and we had settled in to watch the last Dexter episode on our current DVD.  I put a piece of roast in my mouth and discovery MY MOUTH WAS ON FIRE.  Those spices were so strong I nearly died.  I started waving my hand in front of my mouth and saying AHHHH.  I actually think I then spit my half chewed meat on to my plate to which B said "gross."   We then had the following exchange:

Me gesturing wildly:  Is this HOT to you?
B: No
Me: Seriously? My mouth is ON FIRE!
Me: I cannot believe you do not find this hot.
B: The potatoes are kind of hot.
Me: Not the meat? Really?
B: I don't know.
Me: Oh, you would know.  MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE

I proceeded to finish the meal with about three glasses of tea and afterward cooled my tongue with some M&Ms.  In my head I declared that I would never be making that meal again.  All was well. We went on with our night.

In the middle of the night, I woke up and realized I could SMELL peppercorn garlic. It was everywhere, coming out of our pores as we slept. So disgusting! I had to turn off the bedroom ceiling fan because I believed it was just circulating that bad smell.  

Moral of the story - (a) peppercorn garlic is NOT good, (b) I may be a vampire, (c) B is immune to strong spices, and (d) I am still not a good cook.

No worries though. My bro gave me some ideas for spices and such for the next pot roast.**  He got to hear this story yesterday "live" as he called it.  

*That's a technical term for the two prong thingy that I pulled out of our knife block.

**Yes, I will not be deterred from making pot roast. It will turn out good and acceptable to both parties one day  and Hi bro! 

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Last Night I Slept with Mittens On

Remember I told you how cold I get in the winter? How B can tell that it is winter by my nose and fingertips? Last night, they were like icicles. So I got the idea to sleep in my mittens. It was brilliant actually.

Now before you think B is a cruel husband* and refuses to heat our house or something, it is generally not freezing in our house. It does tend to be drafty though which just chills my bones and, apparently, my fingertips. This is especially true if I am typing on the computer. I should probably invest in one of those heated mouse (mice?) for my computer. Maybe then my fingers would be toasty and I wouldn't have to wear mittens. The thing is, when our heat comes on, we both get really hot. Lately, in the morning, it is on when I get out of the shower and it is like a sauna in there - and not in a good way. So last night, when B said "can you turn down the heat, my face feels flush and on fire", I knew what he meant. I could relate. Heat went down, mittens went on. Even the cats do their part by cuddling with each other and laying on our feet at night, sometimes even going UNDER the covers and heating us with their little bodies.

So I tell B of my brilliant plan. He already thinks I am a fashion disaster because my usual "in house" and nighttime outfit is a thermal shirt, flannel pants, a big hoodie and Ugg boots. With the gloves on, I look like a hobo. He recently told me I was not able to wear my Uggs to bed. Now THERE is an idea. Not very practical, however, too bulky.

The mittens do not have that problem. You see, when I get to bed, I am usually freezing. Off come the Uggs and on go knee high warm fuzzy socks, usually in some obnoxiously bright striped color. See? I am truly a hobo at heart. B does not understand any of this. He sleeps in shorts. And, the fact is, I usually get hot in the middle of the night. At that time, off come the socks, the hoodie and sometimes the shirt and on goes the ceiling fan. In light of this, B doesn't understand why I bother with it all at first. Seriously? A girl cannot fall asleep chilly!

So last night I slept with mittens on. I don't even know if B knew since I went to bed first. Just because I told him I was going to do it, doesn't mean I really did. But I did. And in the middle of the night they came off with the socks and the hoodie and the shirt. And the fan went on. And the heat went on during my shower this morning and I got mad and turned it off.

Mittens in bed is a brilliant idea. Now if I could just come up with something to cure the chilliness when I am up and typing. Wrapping my fingers around a candle while wearing the convertible mittens just isn't cutting it.

I know! A new less drafty house.

Now that is truly a brilliant idea.

*I know I have called B a cruel husband in the past, perhaps when he was trying to trip me on the covered bridge, playing into my fear of falling in the water. But I usually say such things in jest. Usually.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

The One Where I Sing...

Friday was my uncle's birthday and we have this long standing tradition where we call each other on our birthday's and sing happy birthday to each other. That is it - no cards, no gifts.  Just a phone call and a song.  It is quite a special tradition actually.  The fact that many family members over the years have gone to great lengths to see that it is carried out such as calling us to remind us that it is the other's birthday does not diminish the tradition at all.  There has only been one year that I missed it entirely and that was because I had been dumped by my long term boyfriend and probably spent the day (a) crying, (b) wondering if he would take me back, (c) crying, and (d) asking others if he would take me back.

As an aside, how cruel is it to dump someone right before the Thanksgiving holiday? Nothing more painful than having to go to a family event that your ex used to attend with you, without him, only to be asked where he is while you make sad puppy dog eyes and your cousin is behind you making the cutting her throat sign to the person inquiring so that you won't (a) cry, (b) wonder if he will take you back, (c) cry, or (d) ask the people there if he would take you back.  Cruel, I say.  

In any event, that was a long time ago and really has nothing to do with last Friday when I called my uncle.  Pure digression.  So, on Friday, I call my uncle and as usual, I launch into the birthday song immediately.  And this is what occurred:

{phone rings}

Uncle: Hello
Me: {sings Happy Birthday}
Uncle: Why thank you darlin'.  I am in another city today with an astronaut, Mike so and so, and I have to give a speech.
Me: Well, good luck with that.
Uncle: Yep, I am walking up to the podium right now.


He was on his way up to give a speech in front of what I imagined to be a lot of people about an astronaut and he took my call? And listened to me sing?  That is craziness.

I immediately hung up and called my Dad and informed him how crazy his brother was. We had quite a good laugh.  Then my Dad said:

Dad: Well, I am ironing a shirt right now. I know it is not an astronaut or anything, but...
Me: Very funny...I will let you go.

Later, I had the opportunity to ask my Uncle why on earth he decided to answer the phone when he was about to give a speech.  His response? "I always answer my phone. I don't know how to turn it off."

Phone issues must run in the family.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Can You Hear Me Now?

Remember that partner that could not believe I did not know how to make a conference call? Well, he may be a whiz at conference calls, but give him bluetooth technology and a car and hilarity ensues. His car has the function to answer his cell phone through the radio speakers using bluetooth technology. Receiving and answering phone calls doesn't seem to be a problem. Making them? That goes a little something like this...

{Words in all caps are to be read as if they are being yelled very slowly}

Partner: Let's call other partner and see if he wants to meet us for lunch.
Me: Sounds good.

He hits the button and we hear:

Voice: Sync in. I am listening. State your command.
Partner: Phone.
Voice: Phone on. What would you like to do?
Partner: DIAL
Partner: Wait. No. That's the wrong word.
Partner: Stop. Sorry. No.
Voice: I do not understand your command.
Partner: Shit. How do I turn this thing off?

He presses many buttons while cursing the whole time and the thing turns off. I am giggling like a mad woman because he is getting so angry.

Partner: This happens to me and my wife all of the time. You have to say "call". I always forget.

He hits the on button again.

Voice: Sync in. I am listening. State your command.
Partner: Phone.
Voice: Phone on. What would you like to do?
Partner: CALL
Voice: Please state the number you are calling.
Partner: 555-1212
Voice: Dialing 55-1212
Me: That is not even a real number.
Partner: Shit. How do I stop it from dialing? How do I turn it off.

After more buttons are pressed, it is off and he is cursing and telling me how he "hates this thing" and he can "never get it right." Meanwhile, I am thinking we should just pick up the actual phone and make the call, but what do I know. So, one more time for kicks I suppose:

Voice: Sync in. I am listening. What is your command?
Me: [whispering] phone
Partner: PHONE
Voice: Phone on. What would you like to do?
Me: [whispering] call
Partner to me: SHHHHH
Me: I was only trying to help [looks out the window to try to suppress laughter]
Partner: CALL
Voice: Please state the number you are calling.

See, now he is going to break out speed dial words. Not that it is going to help, when the car was calling 55-1212 it named it front office. Actually "office front." I try to point this out:

Me: It is office front.
Partner: Shhhh
Voice: I do not recognize front office.
Me: [totally suppressing laughter, although at this point it may be due to insanity]
Voice: I do not recognize front office.
Partner: OFFICE

Finally, without any good reason, as just as we had given up and the only thing keeping us connected to the phone was the fact that Partner could not get it to turn off, the correct number is dialed, the receptionist answers and the other Partner is meeting us for lunch. This lunch it turns out. Meanwhile I spent the whole ride to the restaurant giggling like crazy or thinking about giggling. Him yelling very slowly at the car while saying all the wrong words was just too much for me. The whole day was full of hilarity.

And I haven't even told you about the ride downtown that morning.

Friday, November 14, 2008

The Lunch That Was Much Ado About Nothing

The other day three partners and I went out to lunch to celebrate something or be thanked or something. I forget. It has been a long week.  As usual, we went to a hobsnobbing place, although not to hobsnob, but to be congratulated or thanked.  Quite often well known people and local semi-celebrities will frequent the place.  This day was no exception.  As we are sitting there, a partner says "Oh look, Doug Smith just came in."  Doug Smith is a newscaster on a local TV station.  I CANNOT STAND Doug Smith so I snort in disdain or something along those lines and say "don't even get me started about Doug Smith."  The partner that lived through my Amityville tirade says "uh oh," the first partner remains silent as he is used to my tirades, but the third partner is new to our scene and he makes the mistake of asking "Why? What's wrong with Doug Smith?"  Game on.  I unleash with this tirade:

"Well how about for starters that he READS from the teleprompter. I know that they all do it, but he is so OBVIOUS about it. It is not like he is new. We have had to put up with this for years and years.  Why is he always looking down right?  Why Doug Smith? WHY?  This leads me to constantly scream at the TV screen I AM UP HERE - YOO HOO - HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SCREEN.  It totally distracts from my news viewing and I do not understand why he just cannot do it correctly. I just do NOT understand."  

Shaking my head in disgust, I was done.

After a brief discussion about the proper placement of TV teleprompters, we go back to our meal. Some time later, the first partner says "It is getting late, does Doug Smith know he has to be on the air at 5?"  I respond "I am quite sure that he knows when he has to be there as he is there every day.  And, really, what's the rush? It is not like he has to learn his lines or anything."   A few minutes later, not entirely convinced, partner renewed his desire to go over there and tell Doug Smith to get to work.  That just riled me up some more, "No! What you need to do is go over there and tell him that perhaps he should get there EARLY so he has time to READ HIS STORIES so he is not READING the teleprompter."

Nobody said anything. We left, walking by Doug Smith.  As we waited for our car, I told first partner "Wait until I tell B who I saw, he will immediately know my tirade at just the mention of his name."  Later that night when I got home, I said to B "guess who I saw at lunch today - Doug Smith."  B's response? "La...dee...da..."  Um, not quite the response I was expecting so I pressed on:

Me: Well, you know how I feel about Doug Smith, right?
B:  That he reads?
Me: Yes!! [thinking B and I are SO on the same page and love is bliss]
B: Don't you mean Sean Gold? Isn't he the one that reads?
Me: Huh.
B: Remember Doug Smith is the one that sometimes they put all that pancake makeup on and he looks dead on our HDTV, like literally should be in a coffin.
Me: Huh.
B: Yep, that's our only problem with Doug Smith.
Me: ...[thinking I need to take B with me everywhere I go so I can keep my tirades straight]

Me: Well, GREAT...now my outburst today was ALL FOR NOTHING!!
Me: Huh. Oh well.

Do you think I will tell my partners the truth? Probably not. In fact, in all likelihood what will happen is we will all be out again, Doug Smith will arrive and one of them will ask "isn't that the guy who you cannot stand because he reads the teleprompter?" And I will nonchalantly say, "nah - wrong guy" with no further explanation.  

That's how I right my wrongs - nonchalant denial.

*Speaking of Amityville, there is a spider living in my house and stalking me as I type.  I did not kill him even though he charged at me in the bathroom as I figured he was more scared of me than him... blah, blah, blah.  However, when I mentioned our bathroom guest to B, he notified me that the spider had moved to living in our bedroom. That is NOT acceptable.  I do not need to swallow a spider while sleeping. It happens folks.  And guess what?  Since B said that, I cannot find the spider.  Either he and B are in cahoots to play a cruel joke on me or one of us is full of extra protein.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

A Bad Case of the Mondays

I know it is not Monday, but that doesn't mean I cannot talk about Monday. Or Mondays as in plural. As in bad Mondays I have had lately.  Two to be exact, although one was much harder on B than I.

The Monday before last was after Sunday.  Wow logic, right?  Well Sunday has now become Family Dinner Day in the Riddler household.   This involves my making up some concoction to throw in the crockpot because it is so easy while trying not to cut off any appendages in the process.  There are currently three in rotation (1) applesauce chicken, (2) candy chicken, and (3) slimy pot roast. Yep, this isn't going to become a cooking blog anytime soon.  Family Dinner Day culminates with B and I eating said dinner on the couch, in front of the TV while watching an episode of season 2 of Dexter.  Nothing like crockpot cooking and a serial killer to equate to quality family time.  The cats even get involved by trying to sniff around for leftovers as if they eat chicken or pot roast.  They are especially fond of the applesauce chicken it seems.

So the Sunday before last was quite hectic.  I was out with my mom actually shopping for what we were going to eat and running late.  Crockpot cooking is fun and easy but it requires time. Usually at least 4 hours.  And B? He prefers to eat his dinner before 8 pm.  So I wanted to get home and get the dinner cooking.  Well, that did not occur until 3.  Around 6:30 I decide dinner is done, however, the chicken was slightly pink so back in it went.  When we finally went to eat it B declared it to be "not pink" and all was good. Of course, he still proceeded to microwave his piping hot chicken to "make sure" it was done. Don't know if microwaves kill salmonella, but he seems to think they do. Dinner was good. Dexter killed some people. Cats begged.  All was well in our world.

And then Monday.  I come home from the office around 5. B announced that he was sick and had been vomiting since 4.  That's a lot of vomiting. Sure enough he ran back into the bathroom and proceeded to vomit every 15 minutes for the next 5 hours!! I thought for sure I killed him.  In my rush to cook dinner, I gave him salmonella.   Panicked, I instant messaged my Mom who told me that (a) he would have gotten it sooner than 24 hours after eating and (b) I ate the same thing and I was fine.  Relieved that I had not inadvertently poisoned my husband, I spent the rest of those 5 hours wondering if he was going to live and cursing that we did not have two bathrooms.  Seriously.  My poor bladder. I held it so long because I did not want to be in there when the 15 minutes was up and B needed the room.  Then I made the mistake of sleeping with him.  He was moaning and thrashing about.   Around 3 am, all was calm in the world.  2 hours and 40 minutes later, I arose for work and thanked the gods above it was Tuesday.  By 1 pm, I was nearly passing out from lack of sleep and headed home to find a nonpuking B to my relief. And although B proceeded to recover the next couple of days and could not really eat until Wednesday, it was not so bad as it was on Monday.

So, this Monday had to be better, right?  Well the pot roast on Sunday was fully cooked - no food poisoning for us.  B did not contract a violent stomach virus - score!  But, alas, something even more horrifying occurred...

I lost the keys to my office snack drawer.  

I cannot get to my snacks. At all.  Oh, also my dictaphone is in there but I am considering that less of a crisis.*  The thing is...I don't usually eat the snacks in that drawer.  In fact, I was going to do a blog post about the contents of the drawer because I seriously have no idea what is in there. I constantly throw things in there, never to be pulled out again.  After reading another blogger's list of things found in her office drawer, I figured that would be fun. And it would. If I knew what the heck was in there! Now I may never know.  At least it was nothing perishable. 

I think.

And Monday? Monday I REALLY needed some snacks.  I remember staring blindly at my key ring unable to comprehend that those two little keys were no longer there. Yes, there were two keys. Yes, I kept them on the same key ring. Yes, I am an idiot.  An idiot without snacks.  I resolved myself to the cheese balls in the office kitchen, which are quickly gaining more popularity than the cheezits, but it was not the same.   Everyone at work was put on high alert for my keys (although I really think they are at the grocery store from Sunday). Coworkers sent me links to videos and how-tos on how to pick a lock. I tried one that involved a binder clip and a paper clip.  I still don't have any snacks. We all know I cannot pick  a lock. At least this time, I didn't use a penny.  Defeated I went home and told B my woeful tale. B, with a look of total shock said:

"You didn't tell me you had snacks in your office drawer!"

As if I am withholding snacks form him or something.  Okay, I have been known to do this. In fact there are mint M&Ms hidden right now (although not in my office drawer thank God), but this is for his own good. This boy goes through sweets like you would not believe. I hide them until he is out and then unveil them to become the snack hero.  Although if I am not quick enough, the next time I go to bake cookies, I will notice I have a lot less baking chips.  I will then confront B who will say "I have a problem."

He and I both.  I think it is called Mondays.

*However, had my iPod been in there like it usually is during the week to protect it from thieves, that would have been a CODE RED CRISIS and a locksmith would have been called.  I live for iTUnes. Sad but true.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

You Can B So Judgical

Did you know that judgical is not a word? It sounds like it could be one. Kind of like dramatical which is not a word either.  Go figure.  I knew it was not a word but I ran across it in one of those annoying captcha code things on the internet and just knew it was the perfect word for the title of this post. Plus, I like made up words anyway. Unless they are being used in a professional setting or in a serious manner.

B came home the other night and said "your hair is long, it looks long" with wonderment and amazement in his voice.  Inside my head I yelled "victory!" and raised my arms to the sky.  Well, not really, but inside my head.  Why are we getting excited about my hair? Let me take you back about four years or so...

B and I were dating.  I was in San Antonio on a work trip with my friend E.  For whatever reason, I decided I wanted to cut my hair short. This may have stemmed from the fact that I have super fine baby hair that just lays there and really does not do much else.  But in any event that is what I decided.  E told me I should ask B after all he was "my boyfriend."  Okay. Sure. What the heck. I call B who says "whatever" and "it's your hair." That B. He played things really cool when we were dating. All nonchalant and relaxed.  Actually he is pretty nonchalant and relaxed. Except when it comes to my hair.  But back then? He was playing it cool.

So I cut my hair short. Pretty short in fact.  When my dad picked me up from the airport without any fair warning, his exact words were "wow that's short!" or something to that effect.  B never said a word. It was my hair after all.  This held true when I got highlights. I would get some noncommittal "whatever" before it was done and some throw away comment like "oh that's blond" when it was finished.

Fast forward to six months after we were married.  After growing my hair out for the wedding, I cut it again. B did not say a word.  By now I was used to this and thought "wow, my super cool boyfriend became a super cool fiance and is now a super cool husband."  Until the dreaded day in November...when I cut my hair shorter than it had ever been.   I remember quite well what B said to me before I left:

"Don't come home with a soccer mom hair cut."

But you see, I had a super cool husband who used to be a super cool fiance and before that a super cool boyfriend who didn't care that much about my hair because, after all, it was my hair (which he continued to say while we were married). He was nonchalant and relaxed.  I wanted shorter, cooler hair. Something with pizazz!  Wowza! Or some other crazy zingy word.  Instead I became:

Pat Benetar

I totally had Pat Benetar hair.  I am not kidding.  And I love Pat Benetar.  And I actually loved my hair. The thing is, I did not really look like me which would freak me out when I looked in the mirror sometimes.  Now, when I see pictures I think it was kind of cool (although there are not that many pictures at all). 

B hated it.

Hated it.

Every pent up feeling he had for all of my hair cuts came out in full force.  I had to sit and listen to how he told me not to come back looking like that. And queries as to whether I really liked this hair. And how long until this is fixed? And he cannot believe he let me invite my hairdresser to the wedding celebration in September.  And from there on he was going to go with me to the hairdresser EVERY TIME to insure this didn't happen.

As you can tell, he was no longer nonchalant and relaxed.  He was irrational and ticked off. It probably didn't help that he had to go on our honeymoon with me and my new hair.  Despite the fact that most people loved it (although B swears that they all lied to  me and that only he, the one who truly loved me, would tell the truth), I never quite accepted it either. I did not hate it as much as B did, but it didn't feel like me.  So I decided to grow it out.

That was over one year ago.  

I have not been to the salon in one year for fear that (a) if I trim even one little bit, it will stop growing and (b) B will want to accompany me and demand to talk to the GIRL WHO BUTCHERED HIS WIFE'S HAIR and who really wants THAT scene?  So it has grown. Not as quickly as I had hoped, but we have come a long way baby.   

So when I hear that my hair is long or looks long, yes I consider it a victory.  The longer it grows, the less we are reminded of the Pat Benetar haircut and all is well with the world.  B goes back to being the super cool husband and I go back to being the wife that does not look like a soccer mom.

Now, what color highlights should I try? After all, it IS my hair.  

Monday, November 10, 2008

Where's Dani?

So it was brought to my attention that I am a horrible blogger and have been neglecting my posting duties. Thanks bro!  But he is right and it is true.  In fact, I thought I last posted on Thursday, but it looks like it was really Wednesday. That is a long time.  Too long.  I would like to say it was because I was off on some wild and crazy adventure but that would be a fib.  The truth is...

I have been doing nothing. Literally.  Getting up early to get to the office early is not only ridiculous, but apparently exhausting.  Couple that with the fact that arriving early does not necessarily mean I leave early and some days it is unbearable.  Feel bad for me yet? Nah, I didn't think so.

Here's what I remember since I last posted:

Thursday is a blur. B was recovering from some disgusting virus so we went for a romantic dinner at the coney island.  Then...nothing.

Friday was just too much for me I guess. I fell asleep at 7:00. That's PM in case you were wondering.  After returning from dinner which involved watching a man in a wheelchair use his legs to literally walk while seated which made B declare that "defeated the whole point of a wheelchair" and I to declare "maybe his butt was sore" which made absolutely no sense, I decided to lay down because I had a slight headache. I even left the bedroom light on so I wouldn't fall asleep.  After about an hour, I got up and moved to the couch to watch TV. I proceeded to do this for the next two hours. With my eyes closed.  And my mouth open.  There may have been snoring involved.  Thereafter, I moved back to the bedroom, told B I was going to bed to which he responded "you probably shouldn't have left in the first place." Touche.*

Fifteen hours later (don't judge - I was exhausted) I awoke to GET THINGS DONE.  This involved going online, getting lost in blog reading and being disturbed a couple of hours later by B who declared we had to go to the cider mill right then and there as it was NOW OR NEVER.  Although thrown about as a threat, I took it as an invitation and off we went to eat donuts and drink cider and watch cider being made yet again.  Every year it is the same routine.  And every year we act surprised as to how it is done.  Like we don't know that crushed apples will come down the chute, wrapped in the tarp to be crushed. Every year I will ask B "but where does the juice GO?" and every year he shows me the keg like contraption complete with a hose.  Oooooh and ahhhh.  Although we do not ooohhh and ahhh audibly like some people in the audience did.  Made me wonder just what they thought was going to come down that chute? Coal?  Maybe nothing.  In the wise words of a nearby three year old "maybe the apples are all stuck together."  It could happen, I suppose.

And Sunday? Oh Sunday. Full of breakfast, mad grocery shopping and deal seeking. I do not know how those deal seeking people do it. I get stressed every time.  You know what doesn't help being stressed while seeking deals?  Being stalked by a guy in a scooter stuck perpetually in reverse.  Nothing gets a greater rise out of me then hearing beep-beep-beep.  That stupid annoying reversing sound found on all trucks and apparently on scooters at the grocery store.  And this man? HE COULD NOT DRIVE FORWARD.  All he did was reverse.  Beep-beep-beep. And follow me from aisle to aisle. I was quite honestly going mad. At some point I just yelled "I can't take it anymore" and ran from the aisle with my cart while some lady looked at me strangely.  Later, upon finding my Mom and griping about said man, she informed me he was following her too.  Like mother, like daughter, stalked by crazy reversing guy.

And what was the craziest thing to have occurred this weekend? I worked, real work, from home. Rarely happens. I just cannot focus as well at home. But THINGS NEEDED TO BE DONE.  Like how I phrase important things in all caps? Gives them greater effect.  Anyway, lots of work was done. Hours of work.  This occurred while the "slimy but good" pot roast was cooking and the "yummy" cookies and the "somewhat crispier" cookies were baking.  Yes, it was family dinner day and although B said the pot roast was slimy, I will forgive him because (a) he does not like gravy - silly boy, (b) he also said it was good, and (c) he did not suffer from food poisoning or immediately contract a violent stomach virus like after last week's cooking.  But that's a post for another day....

*That word does not have the same effect if the accent is not present on the e.  Touche to that as well.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Living in the Dark Ages

We have a problem at the office. It is major. Our email system is not working properly, sometimes not at all. Actually, I am not sure which is worse, absolutely no email or the intermittent garbage we have been putting up with. The system inevitably knows when you are crafting or reading an important email and will choose that exact moment to go down. And the system goes down at least 100,000,000 billion times a day. It makes for fun times. The profession is challenging enough without the extra pressure to try to email important contracts during the 10 minute period the email decides to work. Some say we may be behind the times in our office. Please. Just because we are using an email system that does not sync with ANY phone or PDA does not mean we are technologically behind. I call that frugal.

Others do not share my point of view. There is yelling and cursing (I mostly do the cursing) and stomping out of the office because one JUST CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE. It is like we have all forgotten how to do anything without a computer. I actually pondered how I was going to get someone in my office a message since I could not email him. Yeah, he is two doors down from me. And the guy on the OTHER end of the office? I thought about sending a courier pigeon to him which just reminded me of the big bird that crashed into our window and died on the side of the building. Then I decided I just didn't want to talk to that guy anymore. It could wait. Until we have our email again, that is.

This crisis has also sparked memories of times when people were not so computer dependent. People pondered "what did we do before computers to send a message" to which I replied with great disdain "we FAXED things." I mean, really. Remember the first fax machines with that roll paper that turned brown within a week and completely faded within a month? And someone would send you a fax, call you to see if you had received it and you would say "wait, let me go check" while pulling out a scroll from your fax machine. And just TRY flattening that fax to get it into a file. Oh no, they always curled. Always. I hated that paper.

In the midst of the 2008 Office Email Crisis, as I have dubbed it, I had my own personal crisis with modern technology - the conference call. In that I could not conduct one. It was quite the scene. It all begins like this:

Working on a big deal with a client and partner that is out of town and we were running out of time in the day. After talking to both of them individually, partner says I should conference them in. Hilarity ensues:

Partner (over the phone): Just conference us in.
Me: How do I do that?
Partner: Press the conference button, dial him and then press conference again.
Me: Okay.

I press the conference button, attempt to reach outside line and get "restricted access." Scream at secretary outside my office who brings a book and reads me those directions. Does not work.

Me: This is not working.
Partner: It is quite easy. I don't know why you can't do it.
Me: I am calling you back [hangs up]

I summon another secretary in, she doesn't know how to do it. I throw up my hands in frustration and scream "I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, WE ARE WASTING PRECIOUS TIME!" I call the client:

Me: I was trying to conference you in with partner but I cannot get it to work.
Client: It is easy. Press conference, dial him, press conference again.
Me: I tried that and it won't work.
Client: Try with me on the line.
Me: Hold on

I press conference, begin dialing - nothing happens.

Me: It is not working.
Client: Are you pressing the right buttons?
Me: I don't know how to conference. I cannot work the phone. Please don't judge me.
Client: Why would I judge you? [laughing]
Me: This is a disaster.
Client: I will just conference you from here.

He conferences and partner does not answer phone. Now we are both laughing because it is comical and quite ridiculous. Secretary runs in and says I need to press the on/off button. Eureka!

Me: Maybe he just wont answer your number. Let me call from here.
Client: Okay, call me back.

I dial the client and attempt to do the conference call thing again.

Me: Okay, hang on [dials other number]
Me to Client: Hello?
Client: Switchboard?
Me: Very funny.

Good thing my client has a sense of humor. It works, however, partner will not pick up for me either.

Me: He won't take my call either. What the heck? Forget it. Just forget it.
Client: I think he is calling me right now. Nope.
Me: Wait! He is calling me, hold on.
Me: Partner?
Partner: Hi, I am free.
Me: Great, because now I can do conference calls, hang on...

The rest of the story is boring* except to say that the entire conference call lasted 90 seconds. 90 seconds - that is a minute and a half. ALL of that work, screaming, reading, putting on hold, hanging up, for 90 seconds. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Just a typical day at the office.

*This whole story might be boring. I choose, however, to ignore that possibility.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

The Write Way

Today is election day. I know, you probably hadn't noticed.  Personally, I am excited for all of the campaigning and ads to stop. Then I can go back to my ad free life watching The Hills.*  But before that happens, voting must occur.  So, I have decided to write myself in as candidate for President of the United States of America.  Why not? I think I have the experience.  After all, I was President of a group at law school.  And, I was actually a successful write in candidate for student representative my first year.  That's a winning combination if I ever heard one.  Let me take you back about 9 years or so....

We were in the middle of a full fledged campaign for student something or another at school. There were probably about four candidates for the spot in our class although I only remember two of them and for two reasons.  First, they were my friends (yes both of them).  Second, they were running on a platform together although there was only one spot...and only one of them could win...so technically they were running together, but against, each other. Confusing, I know.

In the midst of all of this confusion, a few people remarked that I should have put my bid in for the spot.  The more remarks were made, the more I thought they were right. Why wasn't I running?  Well, alas, it was only two days before election.  Too late to do anything but ponder what could have been.  However, someone wiser than me, an upperclassman, suggested I should be a write in candidate. After researching and getting a permission slip or something, it was approved.  But how does one go about becoming a write in candidate - how do you get the word out?

Campaign posters were out.  We were told that I could put them up but the other candidates made such a stink that I modestly declared they "weren't necessary."  For the next two days, I and my upperclassman friend, proceeded to spread, via word of mouth, my message. That message consisted of "elect me" or something equally benign yet clever.  Word quickly spread like fire. Why, I don't know. Everyone wanted me to win, although perhaps not my opponents. The day of the election was upon us and we did not stop campaigning.  In fact, I sat by the election table introducing myself to everyone.  My opponents - the together yet against each other team - despite being my friends** did not trust me so they, too, sat by the table.  After a long hard day/night, the tally was in.

I won.

Yep - I, a write in candidate, two days before election, with no signs, won. Victory.  The power was ALL mine.  Never had I been so successful, wanted something so badly, that I took it and seized it, trampling foes and friends alike in my thirst.  I was riding high.

Until my first meeting.  That is when I realized being a representative was annoying as hell. All anyone did was bitch and moan and nothing good happened.  Victory quickly became lackluster enthusiasm which dwindled to pure hatred.

I imagine that might be what it is like to be elected President of the United States.  At least, that is what I will tell myself when my write in candidacy campaign fails.

UPDATE: Another candidate has declared his write in candidacy. He may win on cuteness alone.

*Yeah I like mindless TV. Who doesn't?

**Not much of a friend was I? Running against them like that. However, how could they even explain their dual platform for a single election? So puzzling.

Monday, November 03, 2008

A Date with Civic Duty

B and I do not spend enough time together. We rarely go on "dates." That all changed the other night, however.  We decided to break from the mold and go on a "date" to our city's planning commission meeting.  You read that right. We decided to go to one of those boring city meetings that they tape and then play on some obscure local channel late at night. Sadly, I wish I could tell you that this was my first such meeting. It was not.  However, it was the first time B and I decided to do it as a couple.  

The first meeting I was sent to on my own.  The subject of that meeting was a new bank going in next door to our condo building.  Everyone was up in arms about noise and lighting and whether there would be a wall.  So up in arms that no one was going to go to the meeting to inquire about these things. I had to go. I was not even up in arms!  To be fair, B wanted to go but had to work. So I went as his spokesperson and the spokesperson for the whole condo association who I believe were all sitting on their asses while I suffered through a 3 HOUR MEETING to ask whether lights would be shining into our eyes while we tried to sleep. Seriously.  The bank had to be the last thing on the agenda.  And though I made many new friends, most of them elderly, I decided that would be the LAST of those meetings I went to ever.  

Until the other day when we got not one, but three letters from the city about numerous items that all involved things within 300 feet of us! What was all of this? How did this rezoning affect us? What were they going to do with that old building behind us? WOULD WE GET A NEW WALL? These were our questions, B and I.  We scoured the letter written in strange planning commission language (apparently missing the website address that would surely have answered our questions) and decided that we HAD TO GO TO THAT MEETING.  Much like my newly found elderly friends, we grumbled and crustily marked the date on our calendar. It was a date, just like that. How romantic.

This meeting was so much worse than my first.  And, after two hours, we discovered that none of it really affected us at all. AFTER TWO HOURS.  God help me.  I also found out that one Doris Blake (not her real name) has TOO much time on her hands. She spent precious minutes inquiring about everything and asking questions that were not even supposed to be asked in this meeting.  Sadly, I forgot we were being televised.  I really hope Ms. Doris Blake does not watch it on her local TV channel.   For she will see me rolling my eyes, making faces and sighing heavily.

The same goes true for unknown man who decided to stand up for EVERYONE. He had no particular stake in anything, but that did not stop him. How would this affect such and such company financially? Do you see such and such company here?? If they do not care, why do you?  Thankfully, he got bored and left.

Then there was the architect. B and I had high hopes for him. After all, he was wearing a suit.  But this just proves that you cannot judge a book by its cover. That guy was a fool.  Literally. He was cracking jokes left and right. None of them funny or even appropriate considering he was there representing a bar owner who was attempting to get some plans approved. When the board states that your lights should not be more than 50 watts and then asks how bright they are? Saying 750 watts is not funny.  Nor is betting them a box of donuts.  Or a case of beer.  

My favorite part of this night was when the owner of one of the restaurants was up there speaking. B looked over to me with THE most serious expression on his face and said:

That place...

I almost peed myself laughing.  Hope that guy doesn't watch the televised version either.  B went on to say that it was the sleaziest looking restaurant and that it looked like a massage parlor.  He is right.  It does.

After suffering through two hours of the meeting, realizing none of it had any affect on us, receiving a text message from heaven (or from my brother) that Fringe was a repeat and I wasn't missing anything, we decide to leave.  

Home sweet home. But not before B drove me around town so we could see (a) the bar where the improvements were going and (b) the sleazy massage looking restaurant.

We are such romantics.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Hollow Memories

I didn't do anything special on Halloween. Unless you count falling asleep on the couch at 9:30 and drooling all over myself as special. So sexy.  We never get any kids so we no longer buy candy or carve pumpkins.  Halloween used to be my favorite holiday but I guess I will have to love on that holiday more when we get our own house.  Condos are not conducive to Halloween festivities.

Speaking of houses, B and I decided to go see this house that was for sale in an area we have been dying to get into.  We are not quite ready to buy, but pretty close.  Of course, no one wants to buy our damn condo, but that is a whole other story.  Back to the house.  We get there and the people are still home. Normally that is not an issue but this house is going into foreclosure and the people are being forced out. I really do not want to look at them and be all "oh your house is wonderful" while they sit in a corner and cry or something.  The whole situation is just really sad.

Lucky for us, they did not want to subject themselves to that either. So they left with their dog for a walk.  B walked around critiquing the place, talking about updates, what to do here, what to do there.  I walked around and asked things like "how much do they owe?" "where are they going to go" "they have a KID" "this is so sad."  We were quite the odd couple.

The house, although needing updating, was super sharp. It even had expansion opportunities in the third floor which I loved.  In addition to the kid, the people had a cat. He had his own bedroom. I named him Boots because he had all white paws. I am so original. Boots decided he liked us and was following us all around the house.   This led me to increasingly conversing with Boots.  It was an entirely one sided conversation.  When B decided we needed to see the back porch, I made sure to tell him to be careful not to let Boots outside.  

After perusing the back porch for a while, I open the door to go back in and Boots shoots like a bat out of hell straight out the door, across the porch, and about to go out a small square shaped hole conveniently sized for him. It might be his door but I do not know and surely am not going to be responsible for losing this family's cat seeing as they are losing their home and all. I yell "Grab that cat!"  Luckily B is super quick because he is a superhero. He grabbed the cat and we headed back inside. First crisis averted.

Before we left, we decided to look around the house one last time.  Up in the master bedroom, the windows looked inviting to B. They were really old windows and he wanted to see how they opened.  After a lot of work we got them opened and then discovered we COULD NOT GET THEM CLOSED.  It was puzzling.  We tried the same way he opened them, no luck. We tried brute force, no luck. Finally we discovered you had to push something in to get them to move. Success! But then they wouldn't close all the way. I informed B that my side had to go in first. It took us about 10 minutes to make that happen. Meanwhile Boots was hanging out in our faces. B tried to ask Boots how to shut the window, but the cat remained silent.  After much aggravation, and a little worry on my part, we managed to wrestle those windows closed. Second crisis averted.* After a high five of victory, it was time to leave.

On the way home we decided to drive past my old place.  It was where I lived when I first met B.   Imagine my surprise when it was GONE.  This is a nice old neighborhood. They tore down that house and a few others to put up this misplaced, very new, crazy looking townhouses in the middle of the block. Makes no sense. I told B I was sad because they grazed my memories, especially of the best Halloween EVER.

When I lived there, because the neighborhood was so old and considered somewhat upscale, we would get HUNDREDS of kids trick or treating. It was great.  I, along with my upstairs neighbor and friend, sat outside to pass out candy.  Three funny things happened that night:

1.  The chubby girl next door to us was dressed as a princess with a long blonde wig. She was about 6 and thought she was "hot stuff."  As she passed a boy coming up our walk way, she flipped her wig hair and said "Alex" all hot stuffy like.  Alex looked at her like he despised her and said "ANGELA" in the most despising condescending voice that could come out of a six year old.  He was not fooled by her disguise. I had to hide my face, I was laughing so hard.

2. Two boys came trick or treating. One was wearing a costume and the other was not. My upstairs neighbor said to the costume-less kid "wow, you couldn't even bother to wear a costume." And that kid, with complete seriousness and in the most pitiful voice I have ever heard, said to her "mom could only afford one costume this year and HE got to wear it."  I turned to my neighbor and said "good job!"  She felt crappy and practically dumped her whole bowl of candy in his bag.

3. Last, but definitely not least, was my favorite trick or treater - the 60 year old drunk woman with no costume on and a plastic CVS bag.  Are you kidding me? She weaved her way up to our porch, shouted "Trick or Treat" and just opened her bag.  Despite my inclination to fall on the ground laughing or to inquire as to her costume, I decided to just give her extra candy. Heck, if she needed it THAT bad, she was welcome to it.

I guess my memories were not grazed at all.  But I really loved that house I lived in for one year, five years ago.  And, for me, that is saying A LOT.  Just ask any of my family and friends who had to change their address book every 6 months to a year.

* I didn't tell B, but I was about to leave those windows, get in the car and go home. The owners should know how to shut their own windows, right?

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