In walks husband from taking out garbage, panting. Seriously panting.
Me: What's wrong?
Him: (Huff) Dragging that (huff) garbage can (huff) with all that cat litter (huff huff) in it was like (huff) dragging a dead body.
Me: I see.
Him: I had to like (huff) do it in shifts. (goes to kitchen)
[a (huffing) moment passes]
Me: What do you know about dragging a dead body?
Him: Nothing.
Me: I see.
Him: I think I hurt my back.
Me: You've got to be sh*tting me.
Him: Not seriously hurt it, just irritated it.
[a moment passes; still huffing, he enters the room with ice pack]
Him: Don't judge me. Better safe than sorry.
Me: I'm very much judging.
[Still huffing as I post this]
Showing posts with label stupidity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupidity. Show all posts
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
A Methodological Issue
I suspect that the ideal way of developing one's field exam list for one's doctoral comprehensive exams does not include the following Google search:
Who are the best female British poets
Nonetheless, I sadly just conducted said search.
And I'm sure you can guess how much success I had since I am busy typing this post instead of adding, well, the works of the best female British poets to my list of post-1945 British texts.
You see, it's only that I don't really read poetry. Or British writing in general. So you can see why female British poets are giving me a bit of a problem here.
I just hope that come dissertation-writing time, I've sharpened my methodological practices. Though on the up-side, it would be hard for them to get much worse. (That's not super comforting.)
Who are the best female British poets
Nonetheless, I sadly just conducted said search.
And I'm sure you can guess how much success I had since I am busy typing this post instead of adding, well, the works of the best female British poets to my list of post-1945 British texts.
You see, it's only that I don't really read poetry. Or British writing in general. So you can see why female British poets are giving me a bit of a problem here.
I just hope that come dissertation-writing time, I've sharpened my methodological practices. Though on the up-side, it would be hard for them to get much worse. (That's not super comforting.)
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Lay vs. Lie
I just can't keep it straight. No matter having a language arts teacher for a mother, no matter having looked it up online 10 times, no matter having asked this or that person over and over again. I cannot remember when to use "lay" or "lie" or "lays" or "laid" or "lain." Can't do it.
A language is an infinitely vast and flexible thing - why then must we use the same words to mean multiple things?! Ahhhhhhhh!
A language is an infinitely vast and flexible thing - why then must we use the same words to mean multiple things?! Ahhhhhhhh!
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
4, 3, 2, 1, none
4 is the number of putty knives/painter's 5-in-1 tools we've purchased since the beginning of summer 2010.
3 is the number we were able to locate at the start of the kitchen wallpaper removal project in summer 2011.
2 is how many I saw during the rest of the summer as we engaged in various house efforts.
1 is the number I had to pick from when initiating the hall wallpaper removal debacle in December.
And . . . none - the exact number I found this afternoon while searching my dining room craft zone, the huge tool space in the garage, and the various places we keep tools in the kitchen. And so I was reduced to trying to remove baseboard molding with a butter knife. You can guess how swimmingly that went.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Random Memory: Going Dutch for Pizza
A favorite dating tale of mine comes from early in my relationship with Brad and involves, not surprisingly, food. Strangely, while I normally have a great memory for this type of thing, I can't recall whether this was our second or third "date." While I was just thinking it was the second, I usually remember our second date as a time when he was sick and I brought and "made" him soup at his apartment. (Like so many college students, our dates were often some form of hanging out.) And by "made" I of course mean dumping a can of Campbell's chicken noodle in an over-sized mug, heating in the microwave, and bringing it into the living room for him.
Anyway, this post is supposed to be about pizza, not soup. (It's definitely true that a huge number of my memories, especially those about dating, revolve around food.)
As I recall it, we're sitting in Brad's bedroom listening to music (if it's his, I hate it; if it's mine, he hates it) and he orders us pizza for a romantic (haha) dinner for two. When the doorbell rings and he gets his wallet, I say, "Here', I can give you half," and go for my bag or purse or whatever means I had with me for carrying money.
And my studly future husband responds, "Every little bit helps." And he takes my money.
That's it. That's the whole thing. He went downstairs and got the pizza, brought it up, and we ate it.
Every little bit helps! He actually said that! And he actually took my money. For like a $12 pizza!
This shows you just how out-of-my-18-year-old-mind-in-love with this guy I already was b/c I didn't even think twice about the experience till probably a year later. Yet even while in high school I would have balked at the idea of paying for myself while out with a guy - even if "out" was his apartment. Were a friend of mine to have asked me then, or if a daughter of mine asks me in the future, "Should I go out again with a guy who says, 'Every little bit helps" and allows me to pay for half a pizza," I would screech a resounding, "No!!!!!!!!"
So basically, I was starry-eyed.
While half-hiding his face in disgrace, Brad defends himself by noting that he was only 20 years old and he had no game and no money. I say, Veto.
On a side note, and in defense of myself in the face of my potentially non-liberated stance (feminists everywhere may be weeping), it should be said that I ate half the pizza. Not 2 pieces or even 3, but a full six pieces depite being a wee tiny thing. Translation: even though I think he should've paid for my pizza, I'm definitely not the type of girl who picks at a salad on a date. That should put my feminist conscience at ease.
I must say, however, that I don't remember having paid for a thing since, with the exception of possibly a birthday dinner or two for him before we were married - so $6 ain't too bad in the grand scheme of things :).
As I recall it, we're sitting in Brad's bedroom listening to music (if it's his, I hate it; if it's mine, he hates it) and he orders us pizza for a romantic (haha) dinner for two. When the doorbell rings and he gets his wallet, I say, "Here', I can give you half," and go for my bag or purse or whatever means I had with me for carrying money.
And my studly future husband responds, "Every little bit helps." And he takes my money.
That's it. That's the whole thing. He went downstairs and got the pizza, brought it up, and we ate it.
Every little bit helps! He actually said that! And he actually took my money. For like a $12 pizza!
This shows you just how out-of-my-18-year-old-mind-in-love with this guy I already was b/c I didn't even think twice about the experience till probably a year later. Yet even while in high school I would have balked at the idea of paying for myself while out with a guy - even if "out" was his apartment. Were a friend of mine to have asked me then, or if a daughter of mine asks me in the future, "Should I go out again with a guy who says, 'Every little bit helps" and allows me to pay for half a pizza," I would screech a resounding, "No!!!!!!!!"
So basically, I was starry-eyed.
While half-hiding his face in disgrace, Brad defends himself by noting that he was only 20 years old and he had no game and no money. I say, Veto.
On a side note, and in defense of myself in the face of my potentially non-liberated stance (feminists everywhere may be weeping), it should be said that I ate half the pizza. Not 2 pieces or even 3, but a full six pieces depite being a wee tiny thing. Translation: even though I think he should've paid for my pizza, I'm definitely not the type of girl who picks at a salad on a date. That should put my feminist conscience at ease.
I must say, however, that I don't remember having paid for a thing since, with the exception of possibly a birthday dinner or two for him before we were married - so $6 ain't too bad in the grand scheme of things :).
Friday, January 6, 2012
Um, well
If you find a bag of these lurking in a corner cabinet in your kitchen,
does that mean you're not ready to have a child? If so, we're gonna have to keep a much closer eye on our produce in these coming months so we can get up to par. Good thing I recently cleaned the fridge out . . . .
 |
| Those potato fingers were furry. I shiver to think of it. |
Friday, December 9, 2011
This is how you know you're out of touch
Sunday, December 4, 2011
It's amazing that we make it through the day without an instruction guide
From the other room I hear, "You know what I'd really like to get?"
"Oh great," I say, excepting something expensive and/or absurd. "What?"
Brad appears in the living room. "I forget what they're called. One of those plastic bins you use to carry laundry up and down the stairs."
I pause a second, b/c this seems nearly impossible. Then I say, "You mean, a laundry basket?"
"Oh, yeah!" he responds.
Me, with narrowed eyes: "We have one of those somewhere."
"Oh great," I say, excepting something expensive and/or absurd. "What?"
Brad appears in the living room. "I forget what they're called. One of those plastic bins you use to carry laundry up and down the stairs."
I pause a second, b/c this seems nearly impossible. Then I say, "You mean, a laundry basket?"
"Oh, yeah!" he responds.
Me, with narrowed eyes: "We have one of those somewhere."
 |
| Oh, wow, a plastic bin that you use to carry laundry up and down the stairs! |
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
No freaking way
No way can this be right (can it?): two online dictionaries have pronounced the word "biopic" like the first part of "biosphere" paired with the word "pick." How can this be right?
I would've bet $2000 without flinching that it was pronounced like the first two syllables of "biopsy" plus "ick." I laughed at Brad when he said it his way (errrr, the right way) and quickly busted out the online search to prove my correctness. Oops. Now he's "zing zing"-ing me left and right. And I might have to watch Raging Bull after all.
I would've bet $2000 without flinching that it was pronounced like the first two syllables of "biopsy" plus "ick." I laughed at Brad when he said it his way (errrr, the right way) and quickly busted out the online search to prove my correctness. Oops. Now he's "zing zing"-ing me left and right. And I might have to watch Raging Bull after all.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
No good deed
Were I to tell my German teacher this tale, he would sigh and say, "You have a good heart." Then he'd tell a story of his own where something crummy came out of his trying to do something nice, and I would still feel lousy, but the tiniest bit better.
***
Last summer, Brad's mom bought us a very pretty "squirrel-proof" birdfeeder and a giant box of bird seed. It was much prettier than this, but you get the gist:
![]()
We never found the time to put it up last year, and I was hesitant to do so this summer b/c, given that our backyard is like an aviary, I knew the bird seed would disappear in no time flat and we'd be buying more and more all the time. And, as I see it, we don't need one more expense.
Brad, however, really really wanted to put this feeder out and see the birds and let the cats (from the window) see the birds, so he said that he would pay for the replacement seed with money he had leftover from his birthday and Christmas.
I was fine with that, and so he filled up the feeder and hung it in a low branch of the dogwood outside of the dining room window - the kitties sit on the saddle chair and look through the screen at all the things of nature that they want to eat. And for a few days it was going great: big birds, little birds, chipmunks, the ocassional lurking squirrel.
Then on Saturday we came home from the chiropractor and saw a little bird inside the feeder, flapping around like crazy. Panicky, we took it out of the tree, unscrewed the top, set it in the grass, turned it on its side, and the little guy flew off.
I told Brad that had we not come home so quickly, that bird would have likely flipped out, beat itself off the walls endlessly, and really hurt itself or, worse, died. But he thought it wouldn't happen again or that, if it did, that what I said wouldn't actually happen.
Fast forward to tonight. We go out, do some browsing and shopping, have dinner, more shopping, and then head home after being out for about 4.5 hours. As we're carrying our stuff into the house from the car, Brad somehow notices something in the birdfeeder - I don't know how, b/c I couldn't tell anything was amiss - and goes over.
And there it is, a tiny little bird, barely longer than my index finger, laying in the birdfeeder, not moving. Needless to say, things went downhill from there. I pushed the feeder some; no movement. I asked the little bird to move; no movement. Then I freaked out, kind of cried, got a splitting headache. Telling Amanda and my mom only made my head hurt worse.
The feeder is obviously not properly made (as Amanda pointed out), and it's definitely not made for little birds to go in it (as my mom pointed out). That said, I should have made Brad take it down after the first bird got stuck. I knew it could happen again and I predicted quite accurately what the consequences would be, but as soon as I went in the house that day I pretty much stopped thinking about it. Now I feel awful. I feel like I killed the bird, although Brad, Amanda, and my mom assure me it was not my fault.
Brad put the bird and the feeder in a garbage bag. I thought about burying it, but, honestly, I'm not too keen on dead animal germs - whether for me or Brad - esp. when I'm trying to get pregnant. I feel just terrible for the poor little thing, and I'm furious with myself for not using good sense. I can't imagine how much the poor little thing suffered.
***
So this takes me back to my German teacher, a lovely, lovely man who will eventually get a post of his own. Class is over, so I won't see him for at least a few weeks, which means I can't get a story that would make me feel less bad. But I know that he would tell me not to feel awful, and that we were only trying to be nice, to do a good deed, and then he would probably say, as he seems to like to say, "It's okay. You have a good heart. See?" Perhaps he's right, but still, I'm definitely punishing myself for this good deed.
***
Last summer, Brad's mom bought us a very pretty "squirrel-proof" birdfeeder and a giant box of bird seed. It was much prettier than this, but you get the gist:
We never found the time to put it up last year, and I was hesitant to do so this summer b/c, given that our backyard is like an aviary, I knew the bird seed would disappear in no time flat and we'd be buying more and more all the time. And, as I see it, we don't need one more expense.
Brad, however, really really wanted to put this feeder out and see the birds and let the cats (from the window) see the birds, so he said that he would pay for the replacement seed with money he had leftover from his birthday and Christmas.
I was fine with that, and so he filled up the feeder and hung it in a low branch of the dogwood outside of the dining room window - the kitties sit on the saddle chair and look through the screen at all the things of nature that they want to eat. And for a few days it was going great: big birds, little birds, chipmunks, the ocassional lurking squirrel.
Then on Saturday we came home from the chiropractor and saw a little bird inside the feeder, flapping around like crazy. Panicky, we took it out of the tree, unscrewed the top, set it in the grass, turned it on its side, and the little guy flew off.
I told Brad that had we not come home so quickly, that bird would have likely flipped out, beat itself off the walls endlessly, and really hurt itself or, worse, died. But he thought it wouldn't happen again or that, if it did, that what I said wouldn't actually happen.
Fast forward to tonight. We go out, do some browsing and shopping, have dinner, more shopping, and then head home after being out for about 4.5 hours. As we're carrying our stuff into the house from the car, Brad somehow notices something in the birdfeeder - I don't know how, b/c I couldn't tell anything was amiss - and goes over.
And there it is, a tiny little bird, barely longer than my index finger, laying in the birdfeeder, not moving. Needless to say, things went downhill from there. I pushed the feeder some; no movement. I asked the little bird to move; no movement. Then I freaked out, kind of cried, got a splitting headache. Telling Amanda and my mom only made my head hurt worse.
The feeder is obviously not properly made (as Amanda pointed out), and it's definitely not made for little birds to go in it (as my mom pointed out). That said, I should have made Brad take it down after the first bird got stuck. I knew it could happen again and I predicted quite accurately what the consequences would be, but as soon as I went in the house that day I pretty much stopped thinking about it. Now I feel awful. I feel like I killed the bird, although Brad, Amanda, and my mom assure me it was not my fault.
Brad put the bird and the feeder in a garbage bag. I thought about burying it, but, honestly, I'm not too keen on dead animal germs - whether for me or Brad - esp. when I'm trying to get pregnant. I feel just terrible for the poor little thing, and I'm furious with myself for not using good sense. I can't imagine how much the poor little thing suffered.
***
So this takes me back to my German teacher, a lovely, lovely man who will eventually get a post of his own. Class is over, so I won't see him for at least a few weeks, which means I can't get a story that would make me feel less bad. But I know that he would tell me not to feel awful, and that we were only trying to be nice, to do a good deed, and then he would probably say, as he seems to like to say, "It's okay. You have a good heart. See?" Perhaps he's right, but still, I'm definitely punishing myself for this good deed.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
If you want something done . . . Part 2
For our front living room window and window seat (as well as some throw pillows, I hope), I months ago chose this Ralph Lauren fabric that I mentioned here. This week, decorator's fabrics are on sale 40% off at JoAnn's, and even though starting Friday they will be 50%, Brad and I scoffed up the 1.2 yards that were left at our JoAnn's (he would probably prefer I call it my JoAnn's . . . ) just in case it was gone by then.
Oh, and b/c I accidentially took down the old blind and caulked the holes when we began working on the bookcase/window seat redo three weeks ago (oops). So, we've had a bare window by day, and by night, Brad's been taping up a white sheet with duct tape (who doesn't love silver and white?!) so that all those neighbors who are (un-)interested in our lives can't see in.
Anyway, we decided on a valance and a wooden mini-blind for the window b/c: full drapes will crowd the space too much since there's a window seat and will be pillows there as well; and a custom-made blind (the pull down kind) which is what we both prefer is simply too darn expensive.
I decided to make the valance myself. How hard could this be? I ask. Brad grimmaces. I'll look for directions online, I say.
(5 min. passes)
(Did I mention I don't own a sewing machine?)
I can't find any no-sew valances that are the kind of thing I want, so I'm just gonna do what I think makes sense, I say. Brad grimmaces (again). I can do this! I say. Just you wait and see!
(2-2.5 hrs. pass)
Valance looks lovely; appears to be the correct length; appears to be the correct width. Brad is over-joyed (he has been watching zombies in French, ocassionally glancing my way with some skepticism). We agree to hang the rod and put it up tomorrow (which is today), since it's 10 p.m.
(19 hrs. pass)
I hang the rod. We put up the valance. He cheers. I grimmace. Step back. Grimmace again.
I don't like it laying flat like that. I changed my mind. I want it ruffly, I say.
He looks at me, then at the valance. Steps closer. Are you supposed to be able to see the seams? he asks. Yes, I say, when fabric is not super heavy you can see the hems through it. Then I look closer. Sunlight streams in through the valance.
It seems that the brilliant seamstress - failing to realize that you would, in fact, be able to see the fabric folded under for the hems when the sun shines through - did not think to cut the jagged line out of the edge of the fabric or even up the length of said fabric across the width of the valance.
And, now it's not wide enough, b/c I like it ruffled. So it needs to be twice as long, which of course can't happen unless you would buy twice the length of fabric (which would be ridiculously expensive to do).
And so: the stitch witchery needs to be ripped out, the fabric edges need to be trimmed, and I need to figure out how you make two valances for one window without it looking idiotic. And then I need to remake it (I'd say sew, but that's not true) and make a sister/brother for it, too. But I face this task with no fear . . . just a little bit of trembling.
Oh, and b/c I accidentially took down the old blind and caulked the holes when we began working on the bookcase/window seat redo three weeks ago (oops). So, we've had a bare window by day, and by night, Brad's been taping up a white sheet with duct tape (who doesn't love silver and white?!) so that all those neighbors who are (un-)interested in our lives can't see in.
Anyway, we decided on a valance and a wooden mini-blind for the window b/c: full drapes will crowd the space too much since there's a window seat and will be pillows there as well; and a custom-made blind (the pull down kind) which is what we both prefer is simply too darn expensive.
I decided to make the valance myself. How hard could this be? I ask. Brad grimmaces. I'll look for directions online, I say.
(5 min. passes)
(Did I mention I don't own a sewing machine?)
I can't find any no-sew valances that are the kind of thing I want, so I'm just gonna do what I think makes sense, I say. Brad grimmaces (again). I can do this! I say. Just you wait and see!
(2-2.5 hrs. pass)
Valance looks lovely; appears to be the correct length; appears to be the correct width. Brad is over-joyed (he has been watching zombies in French, ocassionally glancing my way with some skepticism). We agree to hang the rod and put it up tomorrow (which is today), since it's 10 p.m.
(19 hrs. pass)
I hang the rod. We put up the valance. He cheers. I grimmace. Step back. Grimmace again.
I don't like it laying flat like that. I changed my mind. I want it ruffly, I say.
He looks at me, then at the valance. Steps closer. Are you supposed to be able to see the seams? he asks. Yes, I say, when fabric is not super heavy you can see the hems through it. Then I look closer. Sunlight streams in through the valance.
It seems that the brilliant seamstress - failing to realize that you would, in fact, be able to see the fabric folded under for the hems when the sun shines through - did not think to cut the jagged line out of the edge of the fabric or even up the length of said fabric across the width of the valance.
And, now it's not wide enough, b/c I like it ruffled. So it needs to be twice as long, which of course can't happen unless you would buy twice the length of fabric (which would be ridiculously expensive to do).
And so: the stitch witchery needs to be ripped out, the fabric edges need to be trimmed, and I need to figure out how you make two valances for one window without it looking idiotic. And then I need to remake it (I'd say sew, but that's not true) and make a sister/brother for it, too. But I face this task with no fear . . . just a little bit of trembling.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Poison Control Center (a.k.a. If you want something done right, don't ask me)
Don't be alarmed: no one was harmed in the making of this post - or in the ruining of the lamp that inspired it. My hands did look like this, though:
And then - after Brad called Poison Control to make sure that I was not going to be poisoned by the black paint that would not come off my hands despite 7 minutes of washing and scrubbing with a rough sponge - they looked like this:
Yes, they are glistening with vegetable oil. Which actually worked pretty well. After the second try.
Anyway, age-old wisdom tells us that anything worth doing is worth doing right. My house/craft/cleaning motto, by contrast, is more like, "Anything worth doing is worth doing now." Herein we find numerous problems, not the least of which is my undertaking projects without sufficient preparation, know-how, time, and/or interest.
See, for example, Thursday evening, which can be summed up by the following equation:
1 cheap spray paint primer
+ 1 dirty lamp
+ 10 minutes before dinner
+ 1 over-eager spray painter (me)
+ 1 impatient spray painter (me)
DISASTER
After spraying the crap primer on probably too thick (it costs $1 for a reason), I sprayed the dries-in-10-minutes black Krylon on too thick, and it started dripping. I then had the bright idea to wipe it off. In the stationary tub with my hands. You've already seen how I faired in that deal; well, the other guy got it worse:
I like to think this lamp isn't ruined. But I also like to think that I've never massaged vegetable oil into my hands (and the base of a lamp) at the suggestion of Poison Control.
And then - after Brad called Poison Control to make sure that I was not going to be poisoned by the black paint that would not come off my hands despite 7 minutes of washing and scrubbing with a rough sponge - they looked like this:
 |
| Like that shine? It's Crisco vegetable oil. |
Anyway, age-old wisdom tells us that anything worth doing is worth doing right. My house/craft/cleaning motto, by contrast, is more like, "Anything worth doing is worth doing now." Herein we find numerous problems, not the least of which is my undertaking projects without sufficient preparation, know-how, time, and/or interest.
See, for example, Thursday evening, which can be summed up by the following equation:
1 cheap spray paint primer
+ 1 dirty lamp
+ 10 minutes before dinner
+ 1 over-eager spray painter (me)
+ 1 impatient spray painter (me)
DISASTER
After spraying the crap primer on probably too thick (it costs $1 for a reason), I sprayed the dries-in-10-minutes black Krylon on too thick, and it started dripping. I then had the bright idea to wipe it off. In the stationary tub with my hands. You've already seen how I faired in that deal; well, the other guy got it worse:
I like to think this lamp isn't ruined. But I also like to think that I've never massaged vegetable oil into my hands (and the base of a lamp) at the suggestion of Poison Control.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Another one bites the dust . . .
That is, another perfect hardwood floor gets messed up.
It should be noted that "another" suggests there was, in fact, a previous one that had been perfect - well, that's not entirely accurate (can you hear Independence Day in there?!). It was never perfect, although it had the opportunity to be.
That story: last summer, Brad, my mom, my dad, and I refinished two of the hardwood floors in our house - my office and Brad's office. We did his first and did a less fabulous job b/c, well, we didn't know what we were doing, but even still, it's amazing-looking, especially when compared to the crap show it previously was.
In my office, we had a bit of a clue, and our sanding was much more even (if no less tedious and torturous in 86-degree weather when we couldn't turn the air on b/c sawdust would get into the HVAC system and we couldn't turn any fans on b/c sawdust would get in our eyes). The oak thus took the stain more evenly, and, on the whole, the floor looks wunderbar.
Except for the footprint. And its cousin the toeprint.
Yep, Brad stepped in the wet stain. And we didn't see it until it had dried the next morning. Why didn't we see it? Well, b/c LIKE IDIOTS we did the staining at night so we had only lamps to show us what we were doing and only lamps to illuminate what we'd done. There's not even an overhead in that room. (Instead, there's one of the house's 1800 ceiling fans - I hate ceiling fans everywhere except for porches.)
I'd detail the efforts to repair this disaster, but, obviously, they didn't work. I spent two weeks in distress over the fact that my beautiful floor was, essentially, jacked up from the get-go. And over the fact that either 1. it needs to be fixed next time we tackle floor business (which will NOT be this summer) or 2. when we sell the house, we'll be selling it with a messed up floor despite having spent tons of money and tons of effort to make it look nice.
So that's that.
Now, onto this story: I got SUPER GLUE and BLACK FELT stuck to the floor this evening. How is this possible? I shudder to think of explaining. It's too soon, far too soon. But I am agrieved.
And now I'm in the Stupid People Who Mess Up Their Beautiful Floors Club with my dear Bradley. Someday I hope to be able to to share this tale of woe, but right now I need to nurse my wounds. And eat some hot dogs.
It should be noted that "another" suggests there was, in fact, a previous one that had been perfect - well, that's not entirely accurate (can you hear Independence Day in there?!). It was never perfect, although it had the opportunity to be.
That story: last summer, Brad, my mom, my dad, and I refinished two of the hardwood floors in our house - my office and Brad's office. We did his first and did a less fabulous job b/c, well, we didn't know what we were doing, but even still, it's amazing-looking, especially when compared to the crap show it previously was.
In my office, we had a bit of a clue, and our sanding was much more even (if no less tedious and torturous in 86-degree weather when we couldn't turn the air on b/c sawdust would get into the HVAC system and we couldn't turn any fans on b/c sawdust would get in our eyes). The oak thus took the stain more evenly, and, on the whole, the floor looks wunderbar.
Except for the footprint. And its cousin the toeprint.
 |
| It's not pee. I swear. |
Yep, Brad stepped in the wet stain. And we didn't see it until it had dried the next morning. Why didn't we see it? Well, b/c LIKE IDIOTS we did the staining at night so we had only lamps to show us what we were doing and only lamps to illuminate what we'd done. There's not even an overhead in that room. (Instead, there's one of the house's 1800 ceiling fans - I hate ceiling fans everywhere except for porches.)
I'd detail the efforts to repair this disaster, but, obviously, they didn't work. I spent two weeks in distress over the fact that my beautiful floor was, essentially, jacked up from the get-go. And over the fact that either 1. it needs to be fixed next time we tackle floor business (which will NOT be this summer) or 2. when we sell the house, we'll be selling it with a messed up floor despite having spent tons of money and tons of effort to make it look nice.
So that's that.
Now, onto this story: I got SUPER GLUE and BLACK FELT stuck to the floor this evening. How is this possible? I shudder to think of explaining. It's too soon, far too soon. But I am agrieved.
 |
| The shiny stuff is just the camera flash. But even so, this looks ridiculous. |
And now I'm in the Stupid People Who Mess Up Their Beautiful Floors Club with my dear Bradley. Someday I hope to be able to to share this tale of woe, but right now I need to nurse my wounds. And eat some hot dogs.
Public Service Announcement: Protect your hearing
I pretty much can't hear anything the first time it's said. "Wait - what?" is perhaps the statement that most frequently comes out of my mouth. And yes, I clean my ears out on a regular basis (I love Q-tips).
None of this is surprising considering the fact that I come from a long line of people who also cannot hear and, therefore, shout as they talk to compensate for it. (Interesting side note: I am extremely sensitive to noise. I hate hate hate loud stuff, screeching stuff, and bass makes me beyond miserable.)
Despite my genetic disposition to crappy hearing, yesterday's chiropractic experience will demonstrate how important good aural . In fact, protecting your hearing could be a means of protecting your health in general.
At the point at which our PSA commences, I was laying on my back while Dr. L., who was behind me, stretched the mucles in my neck and rubbed out knots there. We were discussing his eldest son's college plans, which will probably involve Pitt-Johnstown for the first two years. Here's how I thought the conversation went:
Me: Why won't he just go to Pitt main the whole time [in Oakland]?
Dr. L: Oh, he'd hate it down there.
Me: Why?! It's awesome. I bet he'd like it.
Dr. L: No, he would hate it. His favorite thing to do is go fly fishing.
Me: What?! Where am I?!
Dr. L: You're in moral America.
Me: Don't give me that Republican crap!
Here's how the conversation actually continued:
Dr. L: I said rural America!
Me: Oh! I thought you said moral America! . . . This isn't rural America! We're 45 minutes outside of the city. This is super gun land, but it's not rural!
Dr. L: I live on a farm!
Me: Oh, whatever.
I sit here writing a blog post, unscathed by this event - which continued to get even more political on my end, although dear Dr. L., like a good business owner, abstained from political discussion on the job - but aware that things could have gone differently. Off the top of my head, I can think of two unfortunate fates that could have easily befallen me:
1. Incensed, Dr. L. could have snapped my neck in .2 seconds. All this would have required is twisting my head a little harder and a little farther to the right or left.
2. A swarm of gun-bearing locals could have converged on the chiropractic office, busted down the door (or simply pulled it open), and captured me for the purposes of torture.
Neither of these sounds very pleasant. Perhaps this is why Brad - whose hearing is minorly better than mine and who could hear the conversation from the other room where he was on the Spinalator - when he saw me, said quietly and quickly in shock/dismay, "You can't say 'Republican crap' in public!"
Oh, but I did.
Besides, if anyone had openly minded (well, actually, if there'd been anyone there to openly mind - the place was empty), I could have just put my hand to my hear, scrunched up my face, leaned forward, and said, "Huh? I can't hear you."
None of this is surprising considering the fact that I come from a long line of people who also cannot hear and, therefore, shout as they talk to compensate for it. (Interesting side note: I am extremely sensitive to noise. I hate hate hate loud stuff, screeching stuff, and bass makes me beyond miserable.)
Despite my genetic disposition to crappy hearing, yesterday's chiropractic experience will demonstrate how important good aural . In fact, protecting your hearing could be a means of protecting your health in general.
At the point at which our PSA commences, I was laying on my back while Dr. L., who was behind me, stretched the mucles in my neck and rubbed out knots there. We were discussing his eldest son's college plans, which will probably involve Pitt-Johnstown for the first two years. Here's how I thought the conversation went:
Me: Why won't he just go to Pitt main the whole time [in Oakland]?
Dr. L: Oh, he'd hate it down there.
Me: Why?! It's awesome. I bet he'd like it.
Dr. L: No, he would hate it. His favorite thing to do is go fly fishing.
Me: What?! Where am I?!
Dr. L: You're in moral America.
Me: Don't give me that Republican crap!
Here's how the conversation actually continued:
Dr. L: I said rural America!
Me: Oh! I thought you said moral America! . . . This isn't rural America! We're 45 minutes outside of the city. This is super gun land, but it's not rural!
Dr. L: I live on a farm!
Me: Oh, whatever.
I sit here writing a blog post, unscathed by this event - which continued to get even more political on my end, although dear Dr. L., like a good business owner, abstained from political discussion on the job - but aware that things could have gone differently. Off the top of my head, I can think of two unfortunate fates that could have easily befallen me:
1. Incensed, Dr. L. could have snapped my neck in .2 seconds. All this would have required is twisting my head a little harder and a little farther to the right or left.
2. A swarm of gun-bearing locals could have converged on the chiropractic office, busted down the door (or simply pulled it open), and captured me for the purposes of torture.
Neither of these sounds very pleasant. Perhaps this is why Brad - whose hearing is minorly better than mine and who could hear the conversation from the other room where he was on the Spinalator - when he saw me, said quietly and quickly in shock/dismay, "You can't say 'Republican crap' in public!"
Oh, but I did.
Besides, if anyone had openly minded (well, actually, if there'd been anyone there to openly mind - the place was empty), I could have just put my hand to my hear, scrunched up my face, leaned forward, and said, "Huh? I can't hear you."
Thursday, March 3, 2011
For just one day - just one!
For one day - that's all I'm asking - I would like to not spill something and, as a result, not have to clean something up.
Today (it's currently 11:51 p.m. on Wednesday) was almost almost that day. Then about 15 minutes ago I kicked over an open bottle of over-priced-yet-totally-worth-it-b/c-I-haven't-been-able-to-find-it-in-7-years IBC black cherry pop, and it went cascading across the coffee table. (Yeah, hon, I'm glad you were asleep for that one.) And I, of course, followed with a mound of papertowels, both wet and dry, and cleaned it up.
Yesterday, I spilled rice, from the pot, onto the tablecloth and the hardwood floor. I can't remember what I spilled on Monday, but trust me, I spilled. The day before I spilled my water when Brad and I were at Starbucks. Most memorable in recent history is the half mug of Dr. Pepper I spilled on my leather couch. That was a sh*t show if ever there was one. I can't remember the last time I moved so fast.
I'm not sure what my problem is. Do I have a self-fulfilling prophecy kind of thing going on here? Are my motor skills just that bad? Or maybe it's my memory since I put something down, make a mental note not to knock it over, then proceed to knock it over with uncompromising swiftness (sounds like a little bit of option 1 in there, too). Perhaps I am just a klutz, plain and simple.
I don't know why I can't go even a day without messing up a shirt or a couch cushion, but I so frequently spill Mt. Dew, Snapple, water, and every type of solid food you'd never imagine someone spilling (like, oh, Bagel Bites) that Brad's thinking about putting restrictions on my use of dish towels. I dirty those suckers faster than he can clean 'em.
Today (it's currently 11:51 p.m. on Wednesday) was almost almost that day. Then about 15 minutes ago I kicked over an open bottle of over-priced-yet-totally-worth-it-b/c-I-haven't-been-able-to-find-it-in-7-years IBC black cherry pop, and it went cascading across the coffee table. (Yeah, hon, I'm glad you were asleep for that one.) And I, of course, followed with a mound of papertowels, both wet and dry, and cleaned it up.
Yesterday, I spilled rice, from the pot, onto the tablecloth and the hardwood floor. I can't remember what I spilled on Monday, but trust me, I spilled. The day before I spilled my water when Brad and I were at Starbucks. Most memorable in recent history is the half mug of Dr. Pepper I spilled on my leather couch. That was a sh*t show if ever there was one. I can't remember the last time I moved so fast.
I'm not sure what my problem is. Do I have a self-fulfilling prophecy kind of thing going on here? Are my motor skills just that bad? Or maybe it's my memory since I put something down, make a mental note not to knock it over, then proceed to knock it over with uncompromising swiftness (sounds like a little bit of option 1 in there, too). Perhaps I am just a klutz, plain and simple.
I don't know why I can't go even a day without messing up a shirt or a couch cushion, but I so frequently spill Mt. Dew, Snapple, water, and every type of solid food you'd never imagine someone spilling (like, oh, Bagel Bites) that Brad's thinking about putting restrictions on my use of dish towels. I dirty those suckers faster than he can clean 'em.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Random Memory: Clueless, Even in a Foreign Country
In summer '08, Brad and I spent a month in Montpellier, a charming city in the south of France, about 6 or 7 miles from the Mediterranean. We speak no French, I am an incredibly picky eater, and it averaged about 89 degrees during our stay (if you are familiar with the majority of European countries, you know that electricity is at a premium - thus, we had no fan and certainly no air conditioning); still, we managed to enjoy ourselves, even on a limited budget.
We rented our apartment - two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, and a sort-of terrace - from a good friend who'd spent the year teaching English at Universite Monpellier 1. At the beginning of June, she headed back to the States to spend the summer at her parents' house in Illinois before returning in the fall to the university where we were both completing our master's degrees. Brad and I capitalized on the vacant apartment; at $600 for the whole month, it was a deal we could not pass up.
Since we were linguistically limited, we didn't meet too many people, but we did befriend (or rather, he befriended us) a young guy who lived with his mother and sister in an apartment across the terrace from us. Iris - pronounced "ear-ISS" - was 22, well-traveled, tall and thin, half Spanish, half French. And he spoke great English. If not for the thickness of his accent, I probably would've been able to understand him perfectly.
Sometimes Brad and I sat on lounge chairs and chatted with him; sometimes while I laid out (with sunscreen on!) and Brad read inside, I listened to him play guitar (I remember the sounds of Oasis). On this particular day, Iris had a friend over, and he invited us to his side of the terrace, to sit with them around the patio table.
The two friends were laughy, enjoying themselves, passing a cigarette back and forth b/t each other. The friend, I believe his name was Roman, rolled another cigarette while explaining something or other about the differences b/t the French and American public education systems. It was a good time, and what I could understand of their conversation (I am really so bad with accents) was quite pleasant.
After a time, Iris asks us, "Do you want to smoke?"
Brad looks to me. I shake my head without a second of hesitation and, smiling, say, "No thanks, we don't smoke."
Iris says something funny in response to me, something about Americans and smoking that I can't remember (but sure wish I could). He and Roman get funnier and funnier, the four of us continue to have a good time, and eventually they go out on the town and we go back to the 964-degree apartment. Once inside, Brad says, "I'm surprised you didn't even think about doing it. I mean, since we're in a foreign country."
"I hate cigarette smoke. So do you. It's gross. Why would being in a foreign country make it any less nasty?"
This is where his eyes grow wide. And where my true naivete is revealed for what it is. "That was pot, hon. They were smoking a joint," my loved one says to me. "Did you not know that?!?! Did you really think he was rolling a cigarette?!"
Indeed, I did. And so passed that opportunity.
Would I have been adventurous if I'd known what it really was? Would the teetotaling goody-goody that I am have grabbed the chance to expand my senses without fear of reprisal from American law personnel. (Yes, this is really the kind of stuff I think about.) Who can really say? But as a consolation, Iris, Brad, and a French friend we knew from back home did get me to drink (read: gulp in five seconds, yum yum) a glass of peach champagne at a wine bar. That's got to count for something, no?
We rented our apartment - two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, and a sort-of terrace - from a good friend who'd spent the year teaching English at Universite Monpellier 1. At the beginning of June, she headed back to the States to spend the summer at her parents' house in Illinois before returning in the fall to the university where we were both completing our master's degrees. Brad and I capitalized on the vacant apartment; at $600 for the whole month, it was a deal we could not pass up.
Since we were linguistically limited, we didn't meet too many people, but we did befriend (or rather, he befriended us) a young guy who lived with his mother and sister in an apartment across the terrace from us. Iris - pronounced "ear-ISS" - was 22, well-traveled, tall and thin, half Spanish, half French. And he spoke great English. If not for the thickness of his accent, I probably would've been able to understand him perfectly.
Sometimes Brad and I sat on lounge chairs and chatted with him; sometimes while I laid out (with sunscreen on!) and Brad read inside, I listened to him play guitar (I remember the sounds of Oasis). On this particular day, Iris had a friend over, and he invited us to his side of the terrace, to sit with them around the patio table.
The two friends were laughy, enjoying themselves, passing a cigarette back and forth b/t each other. The friend, I believe his name was Roman, rolled another cigarette while explaining something or other about the differences b/t the French and American public education systems. It was a good time, and what I could understand of their conversation (I am really so bad with accents) was quite pleasant.
After a time, Iris asks us, "Do you want to smoke?"
Brad looks to me. I shake my head without a second of hesitation and, smiling, say, "No thanks, we don't smoke."
Iris says something funny in response to me, something about Americans and smoking that I can't remember (but sure wish I could). He and Roman get funnier and funnier, the four of us continue to have a good time, and eventually they go out on the town and we go back to the 964-degree apartment. Once inside, Brad says, "I'm surprised you didn't even think about doing it. I mean, since we're in a foreign country."
"I hate cigarette smoke. So do you. It's gross. Why would being in a foreign country make it any less nasty?"
This is where his eyes grow wide. And where my true naivete is revealed for what it is. "That was pot, hon. They were smoking a joint," my loved one says to me. "Did you not know that?!?! Did you really think he was rolling a cigarette?!"
Indeed, I did. And so passed that opportunity.
Would I have been adventurous if I'd known what it really was? Would the teetotaling goody-goody that I am have grabbed the chance to expand my senses without fear of reprisal from American law personnel. (Yes, this is really the kind of stuff I think about.) Who can really say? But as a consolation, Iris, Brad, and a French friend we knew from back home did get me to drink (read: gulp in five seconds, yum yum) a glass of peach champagne at a wine bar. That's got to count for something, no?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
I'm going in . . .
I'm about to tackle the powder room. While Brad prepares and cooks yummy dinner (we're actually have vegetables as part of a meal!), I'm getting out the big guns. Known as DIF wallpaper remover, a PaperTiger, and a putty knife.
You've heard tell of this nightmare zone. The basics: yellow sink with exposed pipes; no toilet paper holder (the existing one was ridiculous and I took it off); a floor made of one of FIVE varieties of linoleum that are in this house; and a horribly crappy silver faucet paired with a bronze/copper/? mirror and towel bar (I actually like the latter two things).
But if this little space was iffy when we moved it, its badness increased 20 fold when Brad and I started - but failed to finish - removing the wallpaper this past summer. In the midst of the project we got distracted by eleven days of hardwood floor refininishing in 80+ degrees. Afterward, just couldn't do anymore physical labor. For weeks. Then months. And now it's February.
1. a pedestal sink (adore them) that matches the toilet (and we'll replace that, too, if we can't find a sink that matches);
2. a lovely faucet that matches the mirror, etc.;
You've heard tell of this nightmare zone. The basics: yellow sink with exposed pipes; no toilet paper holder (the existing one was ridiculous and I took it off); a floor made of one of FIVE varieties of linoleum that are in this house; and a horribly crappy silver faucet paired with a bronze/copper/? mirror and towel bar (I actually like the latter two things).
But if this little space was iffy when we moved it, its badness increased 20 fold when Brad and I started - but failed to finish - removing the wallpaper this past summer. In the midst of the project we got distracted by eleven days of hardwood floor refininishing in 80+ degrees. Afterward, just couldn't do anymore physical labor. For weeks. Then months. And now it's February.
So, it's spring break, and even though I've got a lot lot lot of school stuff on my to-do list, I also have house stuff on my list b/c it makes me happy to work on the house. And Brad and I have big plans for this little space, including, but not necessarily limited to:
1. a pedestal sink (adore them) that matches the toilet (and we'll replace that, too, if we can't find a sink that matches);
2. a lovely faucet that matches the mirror, etc.;
3. tile. This might not even be possible on our budget. Our house was built in 1968, before everyone got wise about asbestos; if this linoleum has asbestos in it, a professional would have to remove it. And that is just too darn pricey;
4. and for the love of everything lovely, some different paint!
The lesson to this powder room project might go something like, Don't start something if you're not going to finish it. Well, I'm finishing it. No one said anything about finishing in the same calender year.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Random Memory: Not being asked out on a first date
We met: during the second week of classes my second semester at college; he was a junior, tall, charismatic, and (looking back, I realize) moderately full of himself (haha); we'd been smiling at each other for a few days across the room; I wore a tight shirt and a skirt, black clunky heels and tights; it was an upper level lit. course on James Joyce; our professor had just played the film version of "The Dead," and, as class let out, I wiggled quickly past people to be leaving the room at the same time as him:
Me: "That movie was terrible."
Brad: "I thought it was pretty good."
Me: "Oh."
I'm nothing if not sauve.
He asks me out: After class now, standing outside in the mid-January cold; laughing and leaning into each other; he offers to read my fiction some time, I decline vehemently due to embarrassment; then,
Brad: "There's a reading tonight, in Bloomfield, some poets, a bunch of us are going."
Me: "Oh, that sounds awesome, but I'm going home tonight - I have an appt. for a haircut."
A month later: Now we've been dating for, well, a month; we're cuddling at his apt., fully absorbed in beginning-relationship-bliss, that amazing species of feelings; we're trading compliments, probably of the "I loved it when you" variety:
Brad: "I loved that you didn't change your plans that day we met, like, that you didn't cancel your hair appt. just to hang out with me."
Me: "I guess it didn't even occur to me - it's not like I was being all kick-butt independent or something. I obviously would've really loved to go with you though."
Brad: "Go with me?"
Me: "To the reading. You know, like to go on the date with you."
Brad (laughing, shocked): "I wasn't asking you to go with me! I was telling you about it so you could like, take the bus over, and then I would see you there. I wouldn't have wanted to get stuck being there with you the whole night if I didn't like you."
Ahh, now that information will put a damper on the romantic story you tell your grandchildren about how you and Grandpa met.
Me: "That movie was terrible."
Brad: "I thought it was pretty good."
Me: "Oh."
I'm nothing if not sauve.
He asks me out: After class now, standing outside in the mid-January cold; laughing and leaning into each other; he offers to read my fiction some time, I decline vehemently due to embarrassment; then,
Brad: "There's a reading tonight, in Bloomfield, some poets, a bunch of us are going."
Me: "Oh, that sounds awesome, but I'm going home tonight - I have an appt. for a haircut."
A month later: Now we've been dating for, well, a month; we're cuddling at his apt., fully absorbed in beginning-relationship-bliss, that amazing species of feelings; we're trading compliments, probably of the "I loved it when you" variety:
Brad: "I loved that you didn't change your plans that day we met, like, that you didn't cancel your hair appt. just to hang out with me."
Me: "I guess it didn't even occur to me - it's not like I was being all kick-butt independent or something. I obviously would've really loved to go with you though."
Brad: "Go with me?"
Me: "To the reading. You know, like to go on the date with you."
Brad (laughing, shocked): "I wasn't asking you to go with me! I was telling you about it so you could like, take the bus over, and then I would see you there. I wouldn't have wanted to get stuck being there with you the whole night if I didn't like you."
Ahh, now that information will put a damper on the romantic story you tell your grandchildren about how you and Grandpa met.
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