Fretting the Small Stuff

I must be happy?

Last night while shopping for things like cat litter, Slim Fast, and vegetarian bacon (it's good!), I felt the sudden urge to hold on to my shopping car and leap up into the air while clicking my heals.  It's not that the muzak suddenly motivated me to break into song and dance.  I felt a sudden rush of happiness and glee - yes, really glee - and wanted to dance.  I restrained myself until I got home when I threw in my Skating Party mix and danced around the kitchen while washing dishes and making dinner.  The energy!  The moves!  Even after an hour workout at the Y!  My dance party ended when The Prof came home and supper was ready to eat.  So that reminds me, I think another Skateland party is in order.

I'm a Toughy!

Yes, I like the word Toughy.  It's not really a word that one would find in the dictionary but it is what we use when our blind cat Mr. Stinny is being all tough.  A bruiser.  A ruffian.  I can kick ass and take names and get all medieval and sh*t...IN THE DENTIST'S OFFICE!

Huh?  No, I didn't beat up my dentist or her dental hygienist.  Nor did I push her instruments off the little aluminum table and jump on the chair with my fists in the air in protest of the non-minty floss.  Instead, the dentist filled a cavity (yes, yuck, I had a cavity) without Novocaine.  And it was a deep one too (again, ew, gross, but I do brush my teeth at least twice a day or is it twice a month...?).  My dentist seemed skeptical but she knew I had a very teeny one filled without Novocaine once before so she decided to trust my judgment.  The dental hygienist looked a tad bit nervous and I learned why after she completed my dental work. 

So I sat - or would you say lounged? reclined? - in the chair while she began drilling away at my tooth.  I waited for the sudden sharp pain that would bring tears to my eyes and make me beg for mercy.  But no, none of that for me because remember, I. Kick. Ass.  They kept asking if it hurt and I just shrugged and replied: "Not at all."  I barely felt a twinge until the very end and still, it didn't bother me.

The dentist left the room and the hygienist said she couldn't believe how well I handled it and that I didn't feel any pain.  She explained the previous week a very large tough man insisted on going without Novocaine for a similar filling.  Early on during the procedure, beads of sweat formed on his forehead and poured down the sides of his face.  They asked repeatedly if he wanted Novocaine but being the stubborn macho jerk (my words not theirs) he was, he insisted they continue. 

But not me, I felt no pain.  I didn't sweat, tear, cringe, whimper, or cry.  I reclined in my chair thinking, of course, this will make for decent blog fodder.  When my dentist completed the procedure, I challenged her to arm wrestle.  No, not really.  I have pathetically weak upper arms.  Kind of like a Tyrannosaurus Rex with those useless appendages but huge muscular legs.  And apparently, I do have big strong jaws like the T. Rex that FEEL NO PAIN.  Okay I'm exaggerating and getting way off topic.  Shocking, I know. 

Actually, when the dentist finished, she told me I was one of a handful of patience who can do endure that type of dental work without Novocaine.  And she put a cold star on my record.  Ah, just kidding.  I asked her to but she wouldn't.  And I didn't get a free toothbrush which I TOTALLY should have gotten after being a toughy T. Rex, right? 

Oh yeah, I am your worst nightmare.  The T. Rex patient of dental care.  YOW!

Why I Am a Geek - Reason 429

After reading Lorraine's post, I feel incredibly frivolous writing this BUT I DON'T CARE!  I am in love with my new stapler at work: The Staples One-Touch Executive Stapler.  Yeah, that's right, I am an Executive.  For people in poverty.  Isn't that cool?  And seriously, my clients are the best hands down.  I know I am usually sarcastic but this time I'm being truthful.  I love my clients and it is a pleasure to help them every day.  But back to the frivolous.  Holy shit this stapler ROCKS!  It is a really nice sort of glacial blue color and I don't have to make a fist and slam down on the stapler repeatedly to get it to staple two pieces of paper together.  I gently press it and voila!  It staples.  Just like it is supposed to.  I want to cradle it like a baby and whisper into to its ear how wonderful it is.  Because, Oh my God, it is a wonderful instrument.  And it is just so pretty too!  The color and design is just lovely.  And it is all mine.

A-N-D-R-E-A

This weekend I confirmed something I already suspected about myself.  I must have some weird ass backwards brain.  I know that is not a shock to many of you by now who may or may not be coming back to read this award winning masterpiece of a blog.   But what led me to this conclusion this particular weekend?  Well, I got roped into answering the phones for a public television auction on LIVE TV!   Ack!  That's really not the worst part although it was quite uncomfortable with the extra hot Easy Bake Oven stage lights cooking me.  And getting up not once but twice to pee because I had to consume several mini-bottles of water so as to not melt. 

Why am I complaining about my brain now?  Because I cannot properly transcribe the spelling of someone's name when they are spelling it to me.  The calls went something like this:

Me: Can I have your name please?

Caller:  Fred Cornholio.

Me:  Could you spell your last name please?

Caller:  Sure C-o-r-n-h-o-l-i-o.  (spoken at a normal pace)

What I heard: S-u-r-m-h-o-l-e-u.

Me: Okay, let me repeat that: S-u

Caller:  No!  C! O! (spoken a little slower and a little louder)

Me:  Oh, sorry.  C-a

Caller: (big sigh) C!  I said C as in Charlie.

Me: Oh!  I'm really sorry.  C-a

Caller: What?  No! (another big sigh and I'm sure rolling of eyes) C-o

This went on with nearly every caller.  Finally, I just made up spellings or had repeat callers so I didn't have to worry about the spelling.   I just spelled the same name different each time!  I'm sure I'll be asked to come back on real soon.   

An Old Obsession

By Andrea

Perhaps obsession isn't the right word.  Intrigued by?  Apparently the thesaurus in my head is broken but I'll try to explain what I mean.  Ever since I can remember, I have been drawn to elderly folks, especially elderly men.  And please, I don't mean in the "sugar daddy" connotation.   My grandfathers passed away before I was born so I never had the chance to meet them.  Fortunately, I had a few substitutes who filled in as grandpas:  my great-grandfather and Hap.  Don't ask how I'm related to Hap because I'm still not clear on that; just know that I loved him very much. 

Both men were quite different.  I definitely was my great-grandfather's granddaughter.  We are both aloof, do not like public displays of affection, and both sought a career in law.   Unfortunately, only one of us became a lawyer.  Cliff, my great-grandfather, came from a well-to-do family.  His father owned a sawmill in northern Vermont and the plan was for Cliff to head to law school.  Tragedy struck his family when his father was either pushed or fell into a saw.  The reason why I write "pushed" is because his wife had an affair with one of the men who worked for him.  The theory is that he and my great great-grandmother conspired to get him out of the picture.  Well, they did and Cliff got the short end of the stick.  He no longer benefited from the family money, dropped out of high school, and never went to law school.  Cliff was a bright man and we had a close relationship.  Sadly, he died when I was young so I feel that I didn't know him long enough.  I do keep a picture of him in my law office as a tribute.

On the other hand, Hap, was a very different gentleman.  He was sweet, kind, and affectionate.  I adored him.  Cliff had a cat named Penny who became Hap's cat when the two of them moved in together.  He became irritated with Hap because  "that damn cat likes him more than me" is how he put it.  You have to love that sort of man.  Hap died after Cliff and that was the last of my grandfather figures.

Now why am I obsessed?  In my cold cold heart, I have a soft spot for elderly men.  When I see one, I give them a big smile and say hi.  These gentleman likely think I'm a little loopy and give me a nod or smile in return.  I cannot help myself.  When I met The Prof's grandfather, I latched on to him like a leach.  I could listen to his stories about the Kennedy's over and over again.  It didn't matter that I had heard these stories over and over again.  I only wanted to be near him. 

Last night as I headed into the grocery store for the 14th time this week, I saw an elderly gentleman pushing a shopping cart full of groceries and with a cane resting on top.  He slowly hobbled along and reached his car.  As usual, I gave him a big smile.  And for a moment I stopped and wondered.  Should I offer to help him with his bags?  I had just left work and was dressed well.  I did not think he would fear I was trying to rob him.  Then at the same time I thought, perhaps he is independent and would insulted by my offer.  Not wanting to offend him, I walked into the store.  I'm a little ashamed that I didn't ask to help because certainly there are other times where I have seen elderly women and men struggling to complete a task and they have welcomed my advances; however in a dark parking lot at night, I concluded it might not be appropriate.

Where does that leave me?  Waiting for another elderly stranger to come my way.

Is it too early for Depends?

You all have heard of Depends, right?  Or Poise?  For those, whoops! I peed-my-pants-a-little moments.  Well, I don't think I'm at that point yet but how am I supposed to drink 4 quarts (exaggeration) of water and not wear out the carpet between my office and the bathroom?  Water is supposed to be good for you and I do feel better for drinking more but MY GOD!  I must have been born with a freakishly small bladder or something.  So here's my afternoon so far:

Drink.  Drink. Drink.  (And I sip my water from a Nalgene water and a orange ghost straw - don't ask).
Ten minutes later, walk to bathroom, pee, walk back to office.
Work. Work Work.
Drink. Drink. Drink.
Again, shuffle down the hall, pee, back to office.
Rinse and repeat.

It's driving me a little batty, I must say.  And being the dumb ass I am, I wait until the last possible second to go pee, you know, hoping I can "train" my bladder.  Just like how you can train a cow to play the freakin' harmonica.  Of course, it doesn't work, big shocker there.  Instead I'm uncomfortable and practically unzipping and pulling down my pants in the hallway.  Classy! 

I'll just put up with it and hope that the training actually works.  And if so, I'll put out a podcast and write a book on training your bladder just like Cesar Millan.  And I shall call it: The Bladder Whisperer.

Really I'm Not a Blogger Stalker

Please turn your head to exhibit A on the left sidebar.  No, your other left.  You will notice a link to Bossy's Excellent Road Trip.  She possibly could be coming through my little city to visit humble little me!  And Emma!  Bossy is on of the funniest bloggers on the web and I would be totally excited to hang out with her for a glass of wine or some good Mexican food.  I enticed her with pictures of my Irish Wolfhound.  I hope it worked! 

I am a little ashamed of my blogging "habit" but I guess I'm not alone.  It's just such a nice outlet with all the great interesting writers out there.  I love to read and it's a quick fix when my motivation is low.  And speaking of reading and quick fixes but not really because it's such a bad segue so just let's all ignore this weird long run on sentence, how about we encourage Sistah to contribute to this blog, shall we?

SISTAH (She's my sister, you know the old one?  The one whose birthday for which I flew allllll the way across country to celebrate?)!  I know you have writing genius in you!!!  Come join me here! It's free and easy (I started to write cheap and easy but I thought that didn't sound as nice).  Let's all chant:  SISTAH! SISTAH!   

Country Adventure...And an unhealthy obsession

This past Saturday Dutch brought me to a quaint flea market/food and craft bizarre just over the border in New York.  The three outbuildings were filled with smells of baked goods and scented candles. Fortunately, Dutch allowed me to indulge my need to taste every sample of spicy pepper jellies, cheeses and dips at least twice.  Of course she couldn't let me taste these goodies alone, oh no.  It was a joint venture on our part.  We returned home with bags full of scrumptious yumminess.  That very night I dusted off my bread maker and made burrito bread and with it I stirred up some incredibly addictive garlic her spread.  Yum.

Besides stuffing my face, I was delighted to find two alpaca farmers selling beautiful knit goods. I searched and found the perfects softest mittens that were fluffy heaven around my hands.  When I checked out, I asked if the couple owned any alpacas.  Much to my delight, they owned sixty.  Of course I grilled them with questions about logistics, space, cost, and at this point Dutch probably thought I was completely nuts.  Okay, I am but just wait.  Let me tell you a little secret. I am OBSESSED with alpacas.  I have loved them ever since we saw a bunch in a field up in Vermont.   I have researched them and talked to my husband about maybe possibly pretty please! owning a couple if we move out to the country.  I mean come on! They are so damn cute!  And they make soft things like my mittens.  Okay, they don't knit them but they are the proximate and direct cause of the softest mittens ever!  And guess what!  The farmers said I could go visit them any time!  I'm sure they tell everyone that but I am so sure they could see my enthusiasm and true love for the alpaca. 

So, one day I will have alpacas.  So there.