So, for a rather pragmatic and cynical gal—I’m heinously superstitious. In fact, I’m superstitious to a fault. One of the banes of my OCD mind is when I see a clock hit the matching numbers like 5:55, 2:22 or 11:11 (the money shot of all clock superstition believing instances). When these slot machine numbers line up in a row on digital clock I basically can not function and lose dozens of IQ points until I can manage to kiss my fingers and then touch them to a wall.
I’m sure the actual urban myth requires that you technically kiss the wall with your lips—but seriously, it’s nearly impossible and awkward enough to try and slyly kiss the tips of your fingers and touch them to the nearest wall with enough true nonchalance to not draw any unnecessary attention. So, I’m a firm believer that the lip to hand, hand to wall transfer is completely valid in appeasing the superstition gods and retaining a morsel of respect in most situations, especially with my nerdy lack of gracefulness. Although I would love to see video of me feigning reasons to stretch and bump into a wall after noticing “4:44” on a clock during a client meeting, it must be the height of geeky awkwardness. Hopefully it just helps to reinforce that I’m “quirky” and “creative” and not just weird in the eyes of my clients.
But tonight as I was eating some supa hot chili (with the ripest Avocado EVER and sour cream and melty sharp cheddar) I realized that my superstition, well more or less my childhood Lucky Charms superstition issues still permeate my adult life. As kids my brother and I were rarely allowed sugar cereals, so when blessed with such a treat I had to savor every moment of the treat. When the golden goose of a bowl of Lucky Charms was placed in front of me I would methodically eat each and every soggy wheaty piece and barricade the marshmallowy goodness to one side of the bowl. Same procedure with Cap ‘N Crunch and the prized segregated Crunch Berries. In desperate times it was the remotely sugar-coated raisins in the Raisin Bran that faced cereal segregation at my hand.
To this day I apparently still subconsciously practice this method of food in take. While I’m old enough to dig me some kidney beans, they really just don’t compare in ranking of desire when compared to the savory beef and avocado bits in my chili. So, at 32 I found myself methodically eating all the beans and veggie bits out of the chili and setting aside all the savory goodness for that last juicy bite. Maybe it’s good that in some ways we never grow up—or at least a great justification of neurosis.
So, I woke up this morning feeling like a semi-truck had run me over or as the roomie would say, “Feeling like a bag of smashed assholes,” which was a little bizarre as a I had an unbelievably uber mellow evening last night that involved dinner at friend’s house (AMAZING homemade tortilla soup BTW) and then going to see 21 at the theater (also FANTASTIC—love, love, love the guy from Across the Universe and my 401 K retirement plan is so out the window and being cashed in to support my new career of counting cards in Vegas now…aside from my distaste for math and only knowing one calculation—I can calculate 30% off of any number in about 15 seconds as it was the amount of my employee discount when I worked retail—I’m sure it’s a full-proof plan).
So back to last night, Let me reiterate—super, super mellow. In light of the great Margarita race on Friday that evolved into the great Margarita recovery on Saturday, by Sunday night we’re talking so mellow that I had clothes laid out for my big client meeting the next morning, briefcase packed, google driving directions printed, teeth brushed, face washed—tucked in bed with the lights out by 10:30pm, so why oh why do I feel like the semi-truck may have also backed up over me while making a 3-point turn?
Now, I’m not a good sleeper by any means—even as an adult I still frequently have night terrors—so I can’t really say that the term a “good night” of sleep really means that much too me. Heck, to me a “good night” sleep means not waking up in a cold sweat, wondering what is chasing me and how the hell I’m going to untangle myself from the sheets (that is if I haven’t woken myself with my own snoring yet—yes, hot, very hot I know…it’s totally sleep apinia which is deadly—so no laughing, seriously I could die and then you’d feel like ass…). But this morning felt different, with night terrors, the details are gone the second I wake up and I just feel exhausted and sometimes kind of achey (like a running the length of a marathon away from giant hairy monsters kind of achey).
So, I’ll recap the details for you:
1. I was woken up by the roomie at precisely 1:36 AM
2. It took like forever (or at least like 4 minutes) to locate my glasses, so I was extremely agitated and discombobulated
3. The roomie was shrieking “pinchers, legs, feelers, HUGE, long” (yes, shrieking exactly like a girl) and armed with a roll of toilet paper, and a roll of paper towels he kept rolling the bottom of his jeans up higher and higher and leaping in and out of the bathtub adding, “he’s REALLY, REALLY fast” and “did ya see it, did ya see it”
4. EVERY God DAMNED light in the house was ON
5. A box of soap was involved
6. Did I mention that it was 1:36 AM when this all started?
And now it gets weirder. I go into the bathroom to get ready for my meeting and notice the shower curtain is half off the rod and tucked behind the towel rack, the bathroom rug is rolled up against the wall, there is a roll of paper towels and a variety of different sized Tupperware containers on the floor—WTF?!? Now the roomie is by no means OCD or one to put things away—but this is definitely one of the more bizarre messes he’s left, EVER. I genuinely DO NOT want to know why there was a need for that much paper towel or Tupperware in the bathroom between last night and this morning. I’m a curious person and after seeing my fair share of Law and Order (that’s L&O to all the REAL fans out there), I’m a decent puzzle solver—but NOT when it involves the bathroom.
OK—so still getting weirder. I drag myself into the kitchen at 6:30 to make coffee and on the counter is an empty card board box from a bar of Zest soap—corked with about 17 papertowels? WTF?!?!
Now, I’m actually a little worried because:
A. I can remember my night terrors
B. I can possibly add sleep walking to my sleep issues AND
C. Add the acting out of night terrors to the list too
I go to my client meeting feeling completely disturbed. When I get home this afternoon I start to pile up the recycling while I’m waiting for the oven to heat up and make lunch:
KA: “Soap box on the counter?”
Roomie: “OH MY GOD YOU DIDN’T THROW IT OUT DID YOU?!? DID YOU? IT’S THE BIGGEST BUG I’VE EVER SEEN—I’M SAVING IT TO HAVE IT IDENTIFIED!!!!! DON’T THROW IT OUT, DON’T THROW IT OUT.”
KA: “So, there was a bug last night?”
Roomie: “Yeah, I woke you up to show it to you, it was in the bathroom walking along the edge of the tub, it had HUGE pinchers and REALLY long feelers and it was SOOOO fast. Didn’t you see it?”
KA: “So…was this around 1:36 AM by chance?”
KA: “AHA! That’s why I feel like a bag of smashed assholes. Was I up? Was I talking and coherent?”
Roomie: “Seemed like you were, but you weren’t even that impressed with the bug and it was HUGE….”
KA: “Yeah with pinchers and long legs, I heard…”
Roomie: “We still have the bug right…?”
KA: “Yes, yes it’s entombed on the kitchen counter in an Zest soap box.”
Not sure if I’m relieved or pissed at this point in time. This bug must be amazing, time to examine. I pull out the wads of paper towel and there smooshed in the middle is a typical household centipede that is MAYBE 2 inches long—with like 2 inch antennae feeler things—so not impressed.
KA: “You woke me up for a fuckin’ centipede.”
Roomie: “No, it’s not a centipede—it has feelers—LOOK! I was going to the bathroom and it crawled out from behind the toilet—RIGHT BETWEEN MY FEET, it was so scary—it has feelers!”
KA: “Yeah, that’s what centipedes have, you woke me up at 1:36 AM!!!”
Roomie: “It’s not JUST A centipede”
KA: “Yeah I know it has ‘feelers’…”
Now I’m from Arizona—so when it comes to freaky bugs and poisonous creatures, my theory is: “If doesn’t live in Australia—it lives in Arizona,” so it’s gonna take a seriously creepy creature (or snake, onion, open water or a clown) to scare me, whereas the roommate hyperventilates if you even say “Miller Moth.” I’m making no headway trying to explain that while completely sci-fi looking, they are really common and even with 2″ feelers—this one isn’t that big. The roomie is from WAAAY upstate NY, so I even try to the analogy, “It’d be like waking up someone at your house to point out a deer in the forest…or a pine cone.”
AHA we are getting somewhere, but the doubt is still obvious.
I google, “Centipede with Pinchers,” and up pops www.whatsthatbug.com (google is so my homey). A fantastic site where you can email in pictures of bugs you find around the house and an entomologist identifies them for you.
Let’s just say that 93% of the entries on the main page – start off with “Holy crap I sat down to study and this came out of the book/rug/chair cushion and it has pinchers…REALLY big PINCHERS” and then proceeds to display a picture just of a centipede (just like the one in our Zest soap box on the kitchen counter) and the entomologist responds with the “Household Centipede” identification.
But the issue isn’t quite settled yet. Yes, it’s just a household centipede—but they just live on cockroaches, bed bugs and other bugs…so this only means more to come…
I’m STILL home in AZ, but I can’t really complain. I’m able to work remotely here in the amazing 60+ degree weather. I hike everyday. And my only other responsibility (which is self mandated) is that I’ve been grocery shopping and cooking dinner every night for my mom. It’s actually been quite enjoyable. I’ve learned that while interacting and bonding with the Snowbirds when out hiking and grocery shopping on mid-week mornings while everyone else is tied to a desk—that I will make a kick ass retired person.
When working remotely—you inherently get your work done faster. It’s not as easy to procrastinate by puttering around someone else’s house. Quite frankly it’d be a little weird—especially since these aren’t my drawers to needlessly sort through—although I am guilty of “accidentally” removing all of the god awful, high-waisted Mom Jean’s from my mom’s closet. I keep telling her that Clinton and Stacy told me to do it and that she will one day not only forgive me, but thank me.
So, I’ve been looking for ways to fill my days. Hence the new interest in hiking and rejuvenated interest in knitting and maybe blogging… Yesterday I decided I would do my mom a favor and pick all the grapefruit from the trees in her backyard. I know it’s one of her least favorite things to do (god damned thorns) and heck, I have time. Plenty of time.
I picked and bagged over 200 grapefruit, and was pierced by the evil trees 14 times. There are still 100 grapefruit on the trees that I couldn’t even dream of reaching—so we’ll let those become someone else’s problem.
Now, there is no way that 2 people can even attempt to eat 200+ grapefruit and not develop some sort of health condition. In honor of all the New Year’s Resolutions being set, I was inspired to Google the Grapefruit Diet—and yeah, that’s clearly a no go.
My mom lives in a quaint little community on a golf course, that is 50% retirees and 30% young families and 10% families in the process of building a new house and renting from one of the retirees that didn’t make it out here this season. All of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are grouped together and it gives it a creepy Wisteria Lane quality. More research on this will follow, but I have learned that every time I venture out to get the mail that I can see movement behind the neighbors’ curtains and shutters and I’m greeted by at least two of them that just happened to “pop” out to get the mail and then barrage me with at least 15 minutes of chit chat. Alas this is where the kernals of neighborhood gossip begin! So, mom thought it would be nice to put the bags of grapefruit out on top of the community mailboxes for all the neighbors. Brilliant idea I thought.
So, yesterday I dropped approximately 180 grapefruit off at the community boxes. Today when I left for my run I noticed that ALL of the bags were gone. So I figured:
A. The Neighbors actually took them
B. We violated some neighborhood HOA code and some ninny removed them
C. Maybe the mailman or workers in the ‘hood picked them up
Either way – grapefruit: dealt with.
Then about a mile down the road I began to notice an excess of grapefruit skin along the golf cart path…hmmm, now everyone here has tons of citrus trees in their yards so it’s not uncommon to see a random peel or mutilated orange here and there—but what I noticed was a suspiciously ri-donkulous amount of grapefruit. I rounded the bend that leads to an underpass for the golf carts and I stopped dead in my tracks.
In front of me were 4 saguaros (yes, the tall cacti in the roadrunner cartoons that look like a penis with arms) and they had been completely assaulted!! Used and abused for target practice by the neighborhood ‘tweens. Apparently our neighborly gesture actually just was not so benign—we provided the ammo for the Grapefruits of Wrath…
It’s been a pretty quiet few weeks in the new house without a whole lot of idiocracy going on—and I have to admit that I’ve sort of missed it. The lack of my roommate’s domestic faux pas really leaves me with very little to report to you all on—until this morning that is.
My mom is on her way up from Arizona to visit for a week—due here in a few hours, so of course I’m frantically cleaning. As roomie gets home from PT for his tore up knee I’ve already got the house 90% done and tackled the nastiest of nasty. So, as I’m knee deep in alleged scrub-free cleanser in the bathroom I wager a deal. I’ve cleaned everything else in the house—even swept and mopped up 6 dead moths from the laundry room (the roomie has a bizarre and unexplainable fear of moths that only rivals my fear of snakes in ridiculousness—I can’t even handle pictures of snakes or genuine imitation snakeskin accessories or pictures of snakeskin accessories for that matter), so could he put the kickball growlers in the dishwasher for tonight’s game as a trade.
Our kickball team is sponsored by the fabulous Boulder Beer Brewery so for each game we get 5 growlers of beer for the thirsty players. We had a bye last week for the holiday so the growlers have festered a little, and the roomie decides that they merit both a hand washing and machine sanitation…sounds like a good plan to me…I’m blown away by the extra effort and extremely grateful.
Until about 15 minutes later when I finish scrubbing the bathroom and begin my quick walk through of the house. Bathroom, check. Laundry room, check. Family room, check. My room, check. My office, almost check. The kitchen, circle of white fluffy foam 3 feet wide and 1 foot high and growing from the dishwasher. WTF?!?
The roomie has locked and loaded the dishwasher with 5 large beer growlers fueled with dish soap (the wash by hand type) as ammo and now our kitchen looks like a reenactment of what was possibly the best Brady Bunch episode ever, well aside from when they went on the TV talent show that is and had those fabulous matching bell-bottom costumes and groovy dance choreography, that’s a really great one. While technically I believe that the Brady kids loaded a washing machine with dish soap—the result is actually quite similar.
SO, now all the clean towels in the house are barricading the kitchen entryway and attempting to quarantine the bubble cloud as the roomie stands there with the mop catching the continually flow of new foam spewing from the dishwasher like super clean lava. My next concern is of course, can the dish soap soaked towels go into the washing machine or will the bubble of foam rise like a phoenix from our washing machine too?
I’m so glad that things are back to normal in our house.
OK, so I was writing an email to a good buddy to give my “two cents” on a conundrum he’s facing and I was overcome by the aggravation that there is no longer a cent sign on the keyboard. Writing $0.02 just isn’t as satisfying. I’ve also always loved the fact the cent sign follows the numeral instead of rushing ahead of it.
I’m rather confident that when I used to set up the old noisy Selectrics in my parents den and play travel agent or university professor that the keyboard included a cent sign, that beautiful and squirrley “c” shape with the slanted line through it. And I’m almost certain that our first old PC that required the insertion of 6 disks to “boot-it-up” also had the cent sign. So, why did it disappear? Where’d it go? Was it a result of inflation? Did some silly patent symbol trump it?
I miss the cent sign, just my $0.02.
…and I’ve just been locked inside my house, so I can’t go out and uh get my bus and stuff and get up there by one ‘clock. I’ll…someone’s coming over to rescue me so… it wasn’t my fault. My parents had locked me in. So, I’ll get there whenever I can. Maybe I’ll try calling Victor at his house or something like that. OK, ah bye”
OK, so I really didn’t think it was possible—but today I got locked inside my own house. And I have to admit that it incited a minor panic attack.
Last week the roommate and I moved into our new palatial abode which is located about one mile from downtown (we were previously about 25 yards from downtown). So, now when heading over to Pearl Street we have begun to refer to it as “going into town.” As if it was the kind of trek into town from some rural lean-to that requires at least half a tank of gas, sled dogs, CB radio, emergency blanket and list of supplies and dry goods to be schlepped back.
Around 11 the roommate “went to town” and miraculously remembered to lock and close the front door as I was in the office at the back of the house–and he’s not what I would describe as a “safety concerned” kind of guy. About half an hour later I went to leave and “go into town” for my lunch meeting and when I went to turn the handle on the front door—it did nothing. I had just gotten out of the shower, so maybe there was lotion or something on my hands making them slippery. So, I wiped them off and tried the door again. No dice. WTF am I supposed to do now…call my client and explain that I am locked inside my house…?!?
I know this is completely ridonkulous, we live in a 3 bedroom ranch style house, that is quite spacious and all the windows were open, but I actually started to feel incredibly claustrophobic and was having a hard time breathing and thinking (guess those two are related…)
Now we do have a side door, but the catch is that the landlord lost the keys to the side door and is in the process of replacing them. So, technically I could leave, but I couldn’t lock the door, now it is Boulder, so odds are pretty safe that the house would be safe—but I’d hate to be the douche bag that gets robbed because they didn’t lock the door. I decided to bank on Karma and called the roommate to alert him of the door situation, crossing my fingers he would remember it when he got home later and not try to break down the front door (it’s happened before…twice, wouldn’t be a good thing to happen the first week we live there).
All in all, the house was safe. And the roommate and I spent half an hour dissecting the doorknob and yelling at each other through the front door and over the rumble of three fans. “I said hold the knob god damn tight.” “No, you said turn the knob to the god damned right.” Wow, the neighbors must love us already.
Anyhoo, now I get to make the embarrassing call to the new landlord explaining that we are locked in the new house.
So, this is pretty bad. I’m sorting through some old files in preparation to move and I came across not my resume from 7 years ago…but a 2 inch thick file of resumes and writing samples from interns that applied to a program that I ran 7 years ago!!! Not even just the one from the intern that I hired…but the ones from all the little UA underclassmen that applied. And even worse, this means that I have boxed and schleped this 1/4 pound of paper approximately 4 times in the last 7 years. I’m not sure if there is a sadder example of Pack Rat behavior. This is just pathetic. Although I guess it makes me as bad as google. When my name is googled it apparently lists that you can still apply for this internship…oy vey.
I have to admit, I “heart” the Chotchkies. Whatta game and whatta team that really watches out for their own. Rock on Adonis!!!
Note from Adonis:
As I sit at in front of my computer machine (I’m a slave to the most philanthropic company in the world), I thought of something.
We clearly have stellar talent on our team; however, I fear our team spirit might be waning (just a bit). I propose we schedule a team outing where we can all get together, cut loose and have a fantastic evening of fun…without a kickball game.
It’s a proven fact that those that party together, perform more effectively together (haven’t y’all ever hung out with Japanese businessmen?). Everyone’s on an even keel when they go out. There is no CEO nor secretary. No: team captain, nor glamorous catcher whose been waiting nearly a decade for the best boob-trap fly ever, nor Cy Young award winning pitcher whose not afraid to toss the 1 eyed jenny, nor elder statesman with a pulled hammy who proceeds to run full bore to make fantastic catches in the outfield, nor stunning wife who claims to be afraid to catch only to pull in an over the shoulder winning out, nor smoking diesel supermom who has more athletic talent in her little toe than most yet cannot seem to figure out how to kick a ball, nor tempting compact speed demon who regulates 3rd with an iron fist, nor shortstop who successfully affronts every lady he’d like to bed, nor unsung hero 1st baseman who takes ridiculous shots to the dome yet holds onto the ball and says nothing in the face of an absurd call, nor provocative lady who’s not afraid to blast the ref with an f-bomb after witnessing her man thrashed and degraded by a bad call, nor tantalizing pink machine whose not afraid to play sans shorts, nor consummate base coach with Adamantium hips who shows up to every game and dwarfs us all in the realm of team spirit, nor supreme athlete with the body of Adonis and mind of Aristotle whose been relegated to an area of the outfield where he sees as much action as he does in his very single life.
These are just a few examples of who is not what, when you go out in Japanese society (and only for those who showed this evening). But we should deviate from the Japanese way in one aspect and one aspect only–allow the women to attend the festivities.
So I propose we all get together on Friday, the twentieth of July (I am picking this date randomly, but without a date nothing happens) at 6:30pm to quickly blow through our meager gift certificate to Harpo’s. If it will entice any of y’all to attend, I’ll grab first round (and probably many after that) and all cabs from Harpo’s to Pearl Street to continue the festivities.
He really is a god. Thank you!
The roommate and I are preparing to move soon, so it only makes sense that after four years of renewing the entire house would go to shit–literally, just a few weeks before we have to clean and restore it to “give us that full-deposit with interest back” condition.
Over the years we have tolerated the temperamental nature of the plumbing in our uber retro condo…we know which sound coming from deep within the walls means step to the side in the shower as it’s about to get hotter then a whore in a church and the sound that means artic waters are about to flow. We tolerated a dishwasher that shook both stories of the building, permanently adhesived rice and cereal flakes to all of our dishes and was as water tight as a vegetable colander.
Then there were the “our oops occasions” like roomie dropping my comb in the toilet or the eyeliner pencil in the toilet fiasco caused by 4 people attempting to change into Halloween costumes in our 3 foot by 3 foot mirrored bathroom a few years back that sent us running to Target just minutes before close on a Saturday night and being assaulted by the misguided mentality of the general public. Please, please explain to me how seeing the two us squatting in front the cleaning supply section comparing the merits of Draino vs. Liquid Plumber and making deals with the devil to not have to call our landlord at 11pm at night gives someone the idea to saunter up and ask us “Whatcha get stuck?” as if it was a great opening line and a fine time to make some new friends. “Yeah let’s get together real soon and compare hair clogs from the tub, what fun!”
But the most annoying and most recent has to be the recent combination of continual marathon running, overflowing and lack of flushing ability of our toilet. Now after 4 calls to the landlord and a week of plunging, augering, bleaching and praying—our plumber Todd has come by to tell us that he has ordered us a new throne, the old one can’t be fixed…but it won’t be here until Friday…uh it’s Tuesday dude, and we have ONE bathroom.
So, until Friday at 8am our household motto is going to borrow from the fine town of Vegas and the Navy to survive with some remote dignity. What happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom and don’t ask, don’t smell. Thank god we are moving soon and taking our damn auger with us…
So, I’m a sucker for these old school photos–and yes more photos means I’m still not done digging out the house. Thank god we are moving next month and will soon have the threat of the landlord stopping by to show the place forcing us to keep it clean…or at least cleaner.
Think this photo sums up the count down to happy hour…just a little bit longer, just a little. Think these dresses might be back in style too, could’ve sworn some sorostitue was wearing one at Dish today…mmm…Dish yummy sandwiches and garlic green beans…
Just a little bit longer until Stella time–wahoo!