He Keeps Me Laughing

Wayne and I have a running joke about how I, as the mom of our girls, don't get any privacy when I have to use the bathroom. As I documented in this post from 2015, I've gotten into the habit of announcing when I have to use the bathroom so the family knows to leave me alone for the next several minutes.

We also joke about how men can't multitask. Okay, I joke, Wayne grumbles and says that women are too "judgy."

Which brings us to this past week's hilarity.

I went downstairs to Wayne's office to ask him a question, only to discover that he was in the downstairs bathroom, peeing. I yelled through the door, "Hey I have a question for you."

"Just a minute, I'm peeing," he yells back.

I find this ironic. 

"Are you kidding me?" I reply back, "I've checked over homework while on the toilet, listened to the kids' day, had essays slid under the door to me, given kids spelling quizzes while on the toilet, and you can't answer a single question?"

By this time he had finished, washed his hands and opened the door. He deadpanned:

"Well, I have to aim."

Living Through History

Marissa and I in the car, where many of our conversations take place.

 Marissa and I had such an interesting conversation tonight, as we often do. 

She was talking about how people have told her that she is "living through history," with the pandemic raging through the country. She said, "I always thought that history was something that happened to you when you were a kid, and once you were grown up history didn't happen anymore. I didn't think about the fact that you and dad are also living through historic times."

I told her about how my Grandpa Vern Floria, my dad's dad, was born in 1901 and died in 1996, just short of his 95th birthday. A few times I would talk to him about what he'd seen in his life.

He remembered a time when cars weren't everywhere, when you were lucky if your family had a horse to get around, and otherwise you walked. 

He remembered when zippers were invented. All the rich kids could afford to have them, while he and all the other poor kids were stuck wearing button-fly pants. 

He was too young to fight in WWI (just 14 when war broke out) but too old for WWII. His eldest son, my Uncle Dean, fought in WWII, his youngest son, my father, in the Vietnam War in the early 1970's. 

"Imagine," I said to Marissa, "Grandpa Vern remembered when zippers were invented, what life was like before cars, and also lived to see the personal computer change the way the world works." 

"Wow," she said, "Omigosh, I just realized something! He was alive when 'Friends' was being broadcast!"

And there you have it, Marissa's version of living through history.

Creamed Tuna on Toast

Subtitled "Validation that I'm a good cook."

My youngest is known for her back-handed compliments, statements like:

"You're not as annoying as I thought you'd be." (Said to a new student after they became friends.) 

"This isn't as bad as I was expecting." (Said to me after taking a bite of a dish I made.)

"After eating school lunches, your cooking is pretty good, Mom!" (Also said to me after she started taking school lunches in high school.)

So I have to set the record straight.

I'm a good cook. Most of the food I prepare is edible, not chewy, not dried out, has flavor and provides nutrients to my family when enjoyed in moderation. I make an amazing marinara sauce, have learned how to make fresh pasta which has gotten rave reviews, and can roast and saute vegetables to perfection. 

Today I recounted to my kids one of my favorite meals that I ate as a kid — creamed tuna on toast. It is exactly what it sounds like. If you want to try it, here's the recipe:

1 can of tuna

1 can of canned peas (15 oz, strain out the water first)

1 can of cream of mushroom soup

Mix it all together, add a little milk if needed and warm on the stove. While warming, toast up a bunch of bread. Serve the stack of toast alongside the bowl of creamed tuna, and voila! It looked a lot like the photo above when you put it on your plate.

I loved this meal as a kid. It had a blend of mush and crispy toast, or mushy toast if you let it soak in. And I loved the satisfying "pop" of peas in my mouth when I ate them.

When Wayne and I were first married I made this dish for the two of us one night. I like peas, he does not. If his mom ever cooked with tuna he doesn't remember eating it. We sat down to our stack of toast and bowl of creamed tuna and he looked at me skeptically. He tried it, ate one spoonful and got himself a can of chicken noodle soup from the cupboard which he warmed up and ate instead.

"Don't ever make that again," he advised. And I haven't, for as much as I've wanted it myself.

Fast forward 25 years. We have two girls, teens now, neither of whom like peas or tuna. One of them is gluten-free, and gluten-free bread isn't known for being the best, even when toasted.

Today I just described this dish to them both and told them how in my house growing up, it was a staple dish in frequent rotation. They both made gagging noises and agreed that I am indeed a better cook since I never try serving them that dish.

Speaking of which, I believe this entire post is a back-handed compliment to my mom, because I loved that dish and clearly her grandchildren wouldn't. Love you, Mom! 

An Unfortunate Error In Fashion

Some months ago a friend of mine gave me some whimsical socks. They make me laugh every time I wear them, which I'm finding is more and more often as the weather gets colder. I realized I don't have many socks that are this thick or nice, so I find myself wearing them every time they are clean.

A few weeks ago my daughter and I went to the chiropractor and I realized, after I had laid down on the table with hot pads on my back, that I had worn my whimsical socks. This wouldn't normally be an issue, except that at the chiropractor I always take my shoes off, so my socks were in full display for everyone to see as they walked by my table. Just the thought of this made me laugh, that kind of uncontrollable laugh that you know is not appropriate so you try to stifle it, which only makes you laugh more. I probably looked a sight jiggling away on the chiropractic table.

Eventually the doctor came over to adjust me, and I apologized in advance for my socks. He laughed and said, "Don't worry about it, I've seen all kinds of socks here, with toes sticking out and all kinds of things." He clearly thought I was apologizing for the state of my socks, not for their whimsy.

Eventually he made his way down to my feet, saw my socks and then started to chuckle. "Oh!" he said with a laugh, "Now I know why you were apologizing. That is so funny."

Because this is what he was looking at:

Normally they read correctly from left to right, but since I was face down on the table, they were backwards.

Thankfully he had a good laugh about it and I made a mental note to remember not to wear those to the chiropractor again.

I also went out and bought myself some decent winter socks that don't have words.

Arguing Without Words

Most couples have some sticking points on things that really aren't worth arguing about. Toilet seat up or down? Squeeze the toothpaste from the end or the middle? They become daily annoyances but in the great scheme of life, really aren't worth arguing about. That's why Wayne and I have these arguments without words. Because the few times that we finally do get a chance to sit down and talk, we'd rather not waste our time talking about these petty arguments.

A recent silent argument we had was about how to store those nifty S'well bottles. Our kids love them, our youngest keeps asking to buy different ones of different styles. (Isn't the point to buy just ONE so you don't create waste?) The bottles have to be hand-washed and every time I put them away I store them with the caps off, because if we store them with caps on, the little tiny bit of water that is in the bottom will mold in the bottle. Yet every time I go into the cupboard where they're stored, the caps are tightly fastened onto each bottle.

I know who's doing this, and it's not the two teenagers who can't be bothered to pick up their socks.

This went one for a month or more. I would take the caps off, he would put them back on. Next time I washed them I'd leave the caps off, he'd put them back on. Finally I left a note in the cupboard explaining my reasoning.

Finally, the caps stayed off the bottles. After a while the note disappeared, I assume because Wayne was tired of being reminded every time to NOT put the caps on.

Next up: the chair in our bedroom.

It's a beautiful chair, we both love it and love the fabric. It is super comfy and gets used practically every day. I especially love the snuggly throw that I bought to go with it. In the winter you can find me on that chair with the throw over my lap, a cup of coffee and a book. Heaven!

But...how to "store" the throw...

I like it casually draped over the chair. (After all, is it not called a "throw?") To me, it says "Welcome! This chair is for you! Sit down, wrap up and get cozy."

My version of the chair in our bedroom.

Wayne thinks the blanket looks messy this way. He likes it neatly folded. But...why? A neatly folded throw says to me that the chair is for appearances, not for sitting. This was an actual discussion that we had one time, because I found the folded blanket on the seat annoying. You always had to move it to sit on the chair, while with the blanket thrown over the edge you could sit on the chair for a few minutes to put shoes on and not have to worry about moving it.

So he stopped folding the blanket. But then he started doing this.

To me, this says that we are embarrassed about the chair. It must be ugly, worn, have big holes in the fabric because we don't want you to see the fabric, we want you to sit on it anyways despite its probable nasty appearance underneath.

And so the silent argument has begun. Every time he's alone in the room, I find the chair completely covered in the blanket. And every time I see that, I whip it off and drape it over the back. He will find it that way later and drape it over the whole chair again — I'll put it back the way I like it.

If this chair could talk!

But here's the thing: I don't have a logical argument for this one. The S'well bottles, that just makes sense, we don't want moldy, stinky bottles. But the blanket? This is just a matter of opinion, and we both think we're right.

And so, I turn to you, dear reader. Which way shall we store the throw on this chair?

Our Dog the Celebrity

I don't mean to brag, but it turns out our dog Beauty is a celebrity.

There's a certain place we go where she is greeted by name the minute we walk in the door. Staff stop to pet her, and they can barely contain themselves taking turns to give her treats.

That place is Walgreen's.

This is one of the pluses of living in our walkable, dog-friendly neighborhood. There's a Walgreen's three blocks from our house, and they let dogs shop with their owners. Between our family of four we've got five prescriptions on auto-renew; we are there a lot. Plus it's an easy stop for a gallon of milk, some chocolate, or other items.

We know most of the employees by name. There's Kris, who walks to work 2 miles one way. Only during thunderstorms or blizzards does he take the bus. And John, the pharmacist tech, who recognizes me and knows to look for prescriptions under one of two names when I appear at his window. And Muhamed, who is afraid of dogs but tolerates Beauty. Of course, Monica is our favorite, because she feeds Beauty treats one after another right out of the box behind the register, and then usually steals one or two into our bag as she's checking us out.

We walk in and whomever is working the register usually greets the dog before s/he sees who is accompanying the dog. "Hi Beauty!" we'll hear upon entrance.

Beauty usually checks register #2 first -- if no one is there, she'll walk around to register #1 and sit politely, waiting for a treat. The minute she sees an employee in a light blue shirt in any aisle, she walks up to them and sits down, eagerly waiting for a treat.

If you let her lead the way, she'll walk you straight to the pet food/dog toy aisle, where she will sniff everything in earnest.

She doesn't usually get to have one until we check out, and then the farewells begin: "Bye Beauty! Bye pretty dog! See you again!"

Some day I'll teach her how to give out her autograph.

Whose Hand Got Cut Off?

Our youngest proves to us frequently that listening and hearing are two different things.

While on our summer vacation to South Dakota two summers ago, Wayne was telling some story to me (me, mind you, not to all occupants of the car), about someone at work who asked someone to hand him his sandwich. Marissa, who always seems to be on the cusp of listening to our conversation, misheard the word "sandwich" and asked, "Who's hand got cut off?"

Throughout the rest of the trip, whenever she would ask "What?" we would reply, "Whose hand got cut off?"

Last week the four of us were in the car, driving back from the girls' soccer game. They are both taking a summer recreational soccer league, and were placed on the same team, which makes it convenient as can be for us to go see them both play.

We were talking about a teammate of theirs who plays goalie. She is a great goalie, and a few times during the game took a ball to the head or chest, shrugged it off and kept playing.

"She sure is resilient," I said.

"No Mom, she was born in Russia," Marissa said.

It took us a while to figure out that she thought I said, "She sure is Brazilian."

Marissa-isms

Marissa's Selfie, December 2016

Our youngest often says things that bring laughter to the family, some of which need to be written down before they disappear into my memory.

The girls were in the midst of opening their gifts when they came across the gift of pajamas. Marissa already had a requested Polaroid camera by her side, an electric blanket and other seemingly more desired items. She opened the box with pajamas and said, "Oh thank goodness -- PAJAMAS!" Apparently both girls were in need of new winter pajamas more than I had thought.

One of the gifts I got for Wayne was a gag gift for "poo-pourri." It came in a box that was called "Master Crapsman" and had two spray bottles of fragrance that you're supposed to spray into the toilet before you use it, and it traps the smell in the toilet.

Later in the day, Marissa and I walked by a bathroom where we could tell the poopourri had been used -- it smelled good, but underneath you could tell...it didn't.

"Well I'm glad Dad's using it" Marissa says, "It's a gag gift, but he really needs to use it. It helps the whole family."

Learning Not to Judge Others

Photo credit SpiritualCleansing.org

While we are sprucing up much of the house, other parts of it that will remain untouched need a little work as well. The doorknob on our bathroom gets more and more jiggly as time goes on. I fear that one day it will come off in my hand and I'll be stuck in the bathroom. Wayne's tried to tighten the existing one, but it is old and tired and the screws won't hold any longer.

Wayne bought a glass doorknob that looks like others in our home, and started working on replacing the doorknob. He easily got the old one off, but the new hardware didn't fit with the original hardware in the door.

The girls and I were preparing to go shopping just a few blocks from our house. Wayne decided he had to buy a new cylinder that would fit the door, but before leaving for the hardware store, he jumped in the shower and shut the door.

The door with no doorknob.

We were about to leave the house when Marissa noticed that there was no doorknob on the door and that it was tightly shut. "How's Dad going to get out?" she asked.

Um, yeah, he isn't.

I inserted the cylinder and used the doorknob from the outside to open the door.

That would have been awkward -- we would have gone shopping and he would be locked in the bathroom -- naked -- with no way out and no phone to call anybody. I wonder how long he would have lasted before he would have bust through the plywood separating the bathroom from the addition, out of sheer frustration.

An hour or so later, we are in the dressing room at Athleta and Lindsey is trying on some items.

My phone buzzes and I read a text from Wayne:

Where are you guys? I'm locked in the bathroom.

I respond that we're close by and we'll leave shortly to let him out. I then go to the dressing room door and say, "Lindsey, we have to go, Dad's locked in the bathroom."

"Again?!" she replies rather loudly.

I bet all the people in the dressing room that day thought I married a super smart guy. I have to give him credit for bringing his phone into the bathroom before he started working on the door.

The girls left the store immediately to head home while I bought the items they had chosen, then walked home alone. As I get closer to our house I spy Marissa on the sidewalk walking toward me. I yell, "Did you guys get Dad out of the bathroom?"

"Yep," she says, "He's out. At least this time he wasn't naked."

And this is why you should never judge people based what you overhear them say.

The accursed doorknob.

What Moms Really Mean When They Say "I Have to Poop"

Credit to collegehumor.com

When my husband and I were first dating and we spent time with my family, he was always a bit befuddled by my mom's need to announce her bodily functions.

"Well, I'm going to go sit a bit," she would state, and march off to the bathroom.

"That's more than I need to know," he would say to me, and we would go on doing whatever we were doing.

It didn't make much sense to me until we had kids.

It began with our first-born, who was crawling at the time and was attached to me every waking moment. The three of us were sitting around one Sunday morning, relaxing while she played happily on the floor. I suddenly knew I had to use the bathroom and yet, if I left the room, I would have a baby crawling after me,

"I'm going to use the bathroom," I told my husband. This was my subtle way of telling him that he was on parent duty and needed to entertain the baby, or at least keep her from following me. He looked at me like, "That's more than I need to know," but said, "Okay...."

I went upstairs and started doing my business and within 30 seconds there was a baby outside the bathroom, crying and pounding on the closed door.

"Wayne!" I yelled down the stairs through the closed door. "Get the baby!"

Apparently I needed to be more direct than subtle.

It has not improved over the years. When our dog Dax needed to be let out, he would whine and pace outside the closed bathroom door, while other family members walked around him, ignoring his pleas to be let outside.

I've had homework slid under the door to me to be checked. I've had children outside the door, telling me about their day. It. Can't. Wait. Another. Minute.

I've yelled instructions to people through the door because apparently they can't figure out what needs to be done without my assistance.

"Will someone please let the dog out?"
"Will someone get the telephone?"
"Marissa, are you getting your shoes on?"

I swear I have not had an uninterrupted bowel movement in my own home for 12 years now. It's not like I go frequently or for long periods of time. It's just that the minute I need to go, someone needs something that only mom can handle.

"Mom! Lindsey pushed me!"
"Mom! Marissa pulled my hair!"
"Mom! I can't find my [insert item name here]."
"Mom, can you help me get something down from the cupboard?"

That last one was the final straw. I washed up and went downstairs to help said child get something from a cupboard out of her reach, only to discover that my husband was IN THE KITCHEN right next to the cupboard where the desired item was.

You got me out of the bathroom for this?

Now, everyone in our house knows that when I say "I need to use the bathroom for a bit" it means "leave mom the fuck alone."

And I am also in the habit of announcing when I have to go, just like my mom, so that everyone knows that I am unavailable for the next 3 to 5 minutes.

I now understand how it is we turn into our mothers when we become moms ourselves.

The Cheeseburger Story

Lindsey wanted me to re-tell her the cheeseburger story the other day, even though she was there for it. Lindsey swears it's the only time she's ever heard me yell at somebody other than my immediate family.

ACTUAL conversation while going through the Dairy Queen drive through:

Incomprehensible Speaker (IS): Welcome to Dairy Queen how can I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like a small brownie blast blizzard and...

IS: A cheeseburger?

Me: [pause] No, a small brownie blast blizzard. And I also want a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

IS: [Long pause.] Okay, that'll be $9.54, please pull around.

Me: ...$9.54? Can you read back my order, please?

IS: I have three items, a cheeseburger, a brownie blast blizzard and a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

Me: No, I don't want the cheeseburger.

IS: Okay, so you ONLY want the cheeseburger?

Me: [exasperated] Nooooo! I ONLY want the small brownie blast blizzard and small ice cream cone with chocolate dip!

IS: Hang on. [Long pause.] Okay thanks for your patience, that's $6.46, please pull around.

Lindsey and I chuckle about the miscommunication as we head to the pick up window.

Person at window (PAW): Here is your brownie blast blizzard and a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

Me: Where's my cheeseburger?

PAW: Uhhh....

Me: Just kidding! Ha, that was really funny. Have a great day!

Office Antics, Part I

This is my view from my workspace.

It's basically one big open room with storage and 3 desks in a row. We actually get lots of traffic down our hall, as other tenants of the building walk all the way to the end to the men's room. They take a left just in front of our open door to go do their business.

It's pretty cool to be working in such an open and entrepreneurial environment. There are many days where I am the only one in the office while the other two staff members are offsite, meeting donors or other people who want to help this mission. In many cases I'm doing Excel or database work, and honestly, there is nothing more enjoyable to me than noodling with data while listening to music. I know, I am a complete and utter geek.

Since I work alone so often, I am in the habit of playing music (perhaps loudly). And my kids know what happens when I play my favorite music:

I sing along.

I am seemingly alone. After all, no one is in this big, empty room, I hear footsteps coming down the hall every now and then of various people walking to the bathroom, that's it.

I've learned to recognize the president's steps as he walks down the hall. It isn't his gait as much as the fact that he's had bronchitis for the past few weeks and I can hear the poor guy coughing on his way down the hall.

The other day I heard him coming, so I stopped singing and turned down my music.

He walks in to the office and says, "I got a call from one of the tenants in the building, asking if I could come in to the office today so the singing could stop."

Now I'm sure he didn't actually get a call, but clearly he could hear me from way down the hall.

Um, yeah, I guess that is an open door right in front of me, and I am directly facing it and a long hallway, which probably acts as a megaphone of sorts. Plus there's lots of traffic down our hall, so I bet lots of people have been subjected to my singing the last few weeks.

Awesome.

I now have a handful of tenants of this building who all agree: singing will never be a career move for me. Whew!

So yes, even in an office of three, I can manage to make a fool of myself. Look for my next post -- I know of many others who join me in showing their human side at work as well, in a variety of ways.

All published with permission. Kind of.

Heh heh.

Sugar Free and Care Free

About a week ago Lindsey told me she'd like to go on a sugar free diet, and asked me to join her.

What 11-year-old asks this? One who overheard me quoting an article (with infographic) about how much sugar Americans eat, around 130 pounds per year. In the Forbes article they stated that The American Heart Association recommends no more than 9.5 teaspoons per day. The average American adult eats 22 teaspoons per day; more disconcerting is that the average American child eats 32 teaspoons per day!  Think about the affect of those 32 teaspoons on little bodies and brains that are a fraction of the size of adults, and you start to understand where our country is heading healthwise, and why ADHD diagnoses are on the rise.

I digress.

As long as Lindsey was not asking out of some misguided idea that she needs to lose weight, I was all for it.

So....what does it mean, to not eat sugar? I mean, sure, I've got a sweet tooth, but a sugar-free diet has to mean more than just skipping dessert, right?

Boy did I get an education.

I learned that you can be as strict or as liberal on a sugar-free diet as you wish. It is naturally occurring in fruits and some vegetables, some dairy and in all leavened breads in some shape or form. The resources I read said to cut out white foods because the point is to cut out foods with a high glycemic index, so no white potatoes, no pasta (unless it's wheat pasta), no white breads, etc.

Oh boy. This is my pasta-loving, white bread sandwich-eating kid. Hmmm....

We made a list of the foods we couldn't eat and those we could, and headed out to the grocery store, where the practical application of our education began.

It took us two hours to get $100 worth of groceries because we spent so much time reading labels. First Lindsey began by looking for sugar in the list of nutrients, but then we realized that naturally occurring sugars are listed there, too. So we started looking for sugar and its relatives in the ingredients list.

Sugar is in EVERYTHING. Holy cow.

All yogurts contained sugar. Ironically the ones that were marketed to kids contained more sugar than the regular yogurts. Now I understand where that 32 teaspoons per day comes in.

We read bread labels until we found a whole wheat one that had an acceptable amount of sugar in it.

We read cracker labels until we found a few with no sugar. (They are quite yummy, too.)

We bought whole wheat pasta and bread.

The cereal aisle proved to be the most daunting. We knew the obvious ones -- we could spot them from a mile away.

19g of sugar per serving. Excludes the milk.

But the healthy ones? All had sugar. The only two we found that met our guidelines were Grape Nuts and Nabisco Shredded Wheat. Luckily Lindsey eats and likes both of those.

Most surprising was when we decided to make tacos one night and were looking through the ingredient list for taco seasoning. We usually buy Ortega taco seasoning, but just to make sure, I read the label.

Sugar.

I start picking out other brands. The only one we found that did not have sugar in it was Old El Paso.

While we were doing this picky sugar-free shopping, the store was packed with ingredients to make baked goods for the holidays. We even picked up chocolate chips because Wayne asked me to make a batch of cookies for him to take in to work the next day. (Which I did and totally did NOT snitch any of the batter OR eat a cookie!)

After reading so many labels to try to avoid sugar, the sight of a pallet of sugar was almost disgusting to us.

And so our journey began. Lindsey asked to do this for two weeks, because she doesn't want to miss out on coffee cake on Christmas morning. I couldn't agree more.

We're nearly a week in. Check back soon for an update on how we're doing after a week of sugar free eating.

My Daughter the Word Nerd

 

Scene 1

Our home, dinner time. Lindsey is helping me make enchiladas for dinner. A Rob Thomas song comes on over the radio.

Lindsey: This song drives me crazy!

Me: Why?

Lindsey: Because! He says that he will share a secret that no one knows. Well, if no one knows it, then HE doesn't even know it, so how can he share it? It's a secret that no one ELSE knows.

Me: That's pretty smart. I hadn't thought of that.

Scene 2

Our home, the next morning. Family is gathered in the kitchen, this time backpacks are in the midst of being packed and hats, gloves and coats are being donned.

Me: I'm so excited, I get to wear my winter hat that my friend knitted for me today.

Lindsey: Your friend knitted it today?

Me: Well no, but I get to wear it today. She knitted it for me some time ago.

Lindsey: Well then, you should say you get to wear it today, not that she knitted it for you today.

Me: Okay, word nerd, let's get going.

Lindsey: [Giggles]

 

End Scene.

Naughty Turkeys

Lindsey: Mom, in school I learned that only the male turkeys gobble.

Mom: Is that right?

Lindsey: They gobble to get the female's attention, and if the females are interested they cluck back.

Mom: Oh, that's interesting.

Lindsey: My poor friend, she was gobbled at.

Pause.

Mom: What?

Lindsey: In class. This boy looked right at her and said, "Gobble gobble."

Mom: So...did she cluck back?

Lindsey: No.

Mom: Well good for her, she should play hard to get.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Alternate Versions of Math

DH: Honey, I'm thinking that in about 3 years or so, I might get a new car and you can have the CRV.

Me: What makes you think I want your cast-off car, or that I'm looking to replace my Civic? I love my Civic.

DH: Well, the CRV has lots more bells and whistles on it than your car and it'll be paid off, so we'll still only have one car payment. Besides, I've driven your car in the winter, it sucks.

Me: Let's see, my Civic has 80,000 miles on it, I average about 12,000 miles a year, so in three years it'll have 120,000 miles on it. I may be in the market for a new car by then.

DH: How do you figure you'll have 120,000 miles on it? If you put 12,000 miles on it every year for 3 years, you'll have 116,000 miles on it.

Me: It's called rounding. It's what you do to make a point.

DH: Okay, but why would you round up? If you're looking to sell it, you don't want to round up.

Me: I'm not looking to sell it, I'm trying to figure out if I'll be in the market for a new car by then. The more miles I say it'll have, the more likely I am to be in the market for a new car.

DH: You damn marketers and your rounding.

Me: You accountants and your accuracy.

From the backseat: If you wait 7 more years I'll take the CRV!

DH and Me: No, you can have the Civic then.

From the back seat: Oh come on...

Because I'm Smart Like That

We all get into ruts. Doing things the way we always did them, regardless of whether or not they make sense.

Remember my post about frying bacon?

I received lots of advice after that, links to pans made specifically for frying bacon, and all kinds of recipes for frying and baking bacon.

It takes some of us a few times to learn, doesn't it.

In the past few years I've developed a pet peeve about our kitchen towels.

They are conveniently located on the handle of our dishwasher, relatively close to the sink. All you have to do is turn to the left to wipe your hands.

Yet very often I find these towels on the floor, which is not only annoying, but not very sanitary.

For a while I thought that the girls were using the towels and then dropping them on the floor. I kept getting after them to make sure the towels were picked up, and they kept saying that they were putting them back.

Finally I discovered the culprit.

Since the dishwasher door is opened several times a day, every time it was opened and shut the towels would slide off the handle.

I tried tying them onto the handles, but then they were too short to actually use.

Finally I came up with the solution.

We are now putting the towels on the handle of the oven. That only gets opened once or twice a day, if that, and it's not much farther away from the sink than the dishwasher (it is a small kitchen, after all).

It took me a year or so to come up with this solution. I know, I know, it's amazing I'm gainfully employed.

Some day this will be really, really funny

Last week Wayne and I had an appointment to meet with our banker to sign some papers. Nothing big, just some standard stuff to take care of.

The banker could meet us at any branch, we just had to name the place and time. Wayne decided it would be best to meet her in downtown St. Paul, closest to my work, because *shocking* I have a tendency to be late to things, and he figured the closer it was to my work the higher the likelihood that I would be on time.

We had a 1 pm appointment in a building 10 minutes away from where I work. Easy peezy.

Wayne drove from Plymouth to St. Paul and was at the bank by 12:20. He called me to tell me he was there and remind me that the street in front of the bank was torn up and I'd have to find an alternate route. He even recommended a parking ramp I could park in. I figured I'd better get going, just in case it took me longer than the 10 minutes that I expected, so I could not annoy my husband who hates my chronic lateness. So I left at 12:25. Plenty of time.

Famous last words.

I drove to the general vicinity of the building. Traffic was horrible, of course, because of all the construction. I happened to see an open street parking spot and took it, knowing that I was only a block or two from the building. I plunked a few quarters in to the meter, knowing I would be back before it ran out.

And then I walked. And walked. And walked six blocks in the COMPLETELY WRONG DIRECTION.

I called Wayne. I asked which building. "The one with 'Wells Fargo' really big on the top," he said.

That's great and all if I were miles away and viewing the St. Paul cityscape from a hill. But I'm on the street, and I can't look up 20 stories into the air.

After walking for a very long time, I finally realized my mistake and that I had gone in the wrong direction from the car. So I walk past the car again (no ticket, meter still good), and walk in the other direction.

This time I find the right building but can't get into it. Apparently I'm supposed to be a business tenant of the building to enter the elevator, and I have to exit the building, go back down the street and to the other entrance to get to where I need to go.

I finally make it, then am guided by cell phone to the correct floor.

Time of arrival? 1:10 pm.

This is the best part.

The only two things I had to do were:

1. Show up on time.
2. Have my ID with me proving I'm me.

I open my wallet to pull out my driver's license, only to see a blank spot where it used to be.

I had put it into the pocket of my jacket when I'd gone out for a walk the evening before, where it still was. I was confident it was still there, in the pocket of the jacket, which was hanging in my office. At my place of business. "Ten minutes" from where I was now located.

Thankfully the banker agreed that if I emailed her a scanned copy of my ID once I returned to the office we could still move forward. Whew!

Actually, this is the best part.

I returned to my car to find a ticket on the windshield. I check the meter, it had run out (surprise!). I look at the ticket. It is NOT for an expired meter.

It is for not parking parallel to the curb.

Sure enough, I had parked partly askance, in my hurry to get to the appointment on time. Which, of course, I wasn't.

Cost? $38.

Wine, anyone?

Apartment for Rent - CHEAP!

I drive by this house nearly every day on my way home from work. Notice anything strange about it?

Yeah, seems weird to me too.

The ledger boards have been on the home for at least two years now. There are obviously plans to put on some kind of porch or walkway on the second and third stories, but it hasn't been done yet. Which begs the question: Who uses that upstairs door, anyway?

Since the house is divided into three units for rental, I decided to throw this out to my Facebook friends, to write a headline to help sell that upstairs apartment.

I've got some pretty clever friends, let me tell you.

Here's what they came up with:

• Be on top of the world in this very affordable upstairs apartment.
• An upstairs apartment so cozy, you'll never want to leave!
• Enjoy living in comfort and efficiency in this second story flat with walkout monorail access.

One of my friends came up with an ad for a person living in this apartment:

• Single white female seeks relationship with firefighter to carry her away.

Comment below and add your own!

Evil Hair Days

Don't get me wrong, I love my curly hair. But sometimes it has a mind of its own.

And when it decides to go its own way, the results tend to turn out, well, evil.

Because when my hair misbehaves, it tends to resemble the hairstyles of various nemeses in books and movies.

Take this classic look, for instance.

Flattop, from Dick Tracy.

I achieved this one when I didn't pay attention while diffusing my hair one morning. I ended up with a bunch of curls on the outer sides of my face but the top of my hair was still flat.

Or this one.

Javier Bardem as Anton Chigurh in "No Country for Old Men"

This one I managed to create when I decided to straighten my hair one morning, but I don't have a really good flat iron to do so. I kid you not, my hair looked exactly like this.

And I've managed to achieve this look several times.


Cesar Romero as The Joker in "Batman"

Yes, my hair will curl this way, especially on its own while I'm sleeping. It's crazy and sticks out in all directions, and wobbles in one big wave when I move.

The good part of having curly hair is that most mornings I wash it, I put a little product in it and let it dry on its own. Half an hour later I add a couple of spritzes of hairspray to keep it from frizzing throughout the day and I'm ready to go.

But when my hair decides to be bad, it is evil.