Incident report, 6/30/05

Not a bad day, klutz-wise. The blisters are healing up nicely.

1. Banged elbow on corner of dresser.
2. Got toner on right leg of jeans while cleaning toner catridge at work.
3. Got chocolate all over left leg of jeans and on the passenger seat of JLR's car (again)

On a side note, the oven just made an intersting "thud" noise. Is it supposed to do that?

My cat is staring at me.

He's staring at me rather pointedly.

Me: Honey, the bar stools are just not a good place for sitting in my lap. Sorry.
Him: [meows in protest]




He's still staring.

Incident report, 6/29/05

Not much to report today. Wheee!!

1. Failed to clear doorway at work.
2. Irritated blisters on burned fingers.

Also, I grossed out my co-workers at lunch by showing them the aforementioned blisters. Or at least, they seemed grossed out. It's possible that they were only humoring me. They're nice people.

X91 JXR

Everyone makes mistakes, and some of them are bound to happen while we're driving. You accidentally swerve into the lane next to yours and frighten the pants off the driver of the car that you almost swipe. You accidentally cut someone off because you honestly didn't see them, even though you looked over your shoulder before changing lanes. These are accidents. We should forgive them.

And then there are the Bozos. They make stupid mistakes on purpose.

There are two lanes at the intersection of Milton and Greenville. The right hand lane is for people who want to go straight or turn right. The left hand lane is for people who want to turn left only. Anyhow, Milton is a short street, so as I turn on to it, I see a car with a "Pic-A-Pal" bumper sticker sitting at the light in the right lane, and I see Bozo pull out of the bank parking lot on the right. He starts to pull into the right lane, then changes his mind and pulls into the left lane. You see, Picapal was obviously going straight, and this would not do. Bozo turns right from the left lane! Bozo is too good, too important to wait the 30 seconds for the light to change! That kind of driving is not only selfish and arrogant ("I shouldn't have to wait at the light! I'm too special for that! The world is my oyster!"), it's dangerous. If Picapal had decided to turn at that moment, she and Bozo could have met with accident because, of course, she would not have been expecting him to turn, as well.

Bozo deserves to be chastised. If you see Bozo, shake your fist at him. Tell him he's a lousy driver. Tell him the world would prefer him not to be so arrogant.

For your reference, Bozo drives a little silver convertible sports car, and his license plate is: Texas License Plate number X91 JXR. He may do his banking at Bank of America (that's the bank parking lot he pulled out of).

Incident report, 6/28/05

1. Stubbed toe on big square plug for flat iron, which I had rather stupidly left dangling off the counter.
2. Banged knee on desk.
3. Stubbed toe (again!) on plug for flat iron.
4. Banged elbow on corner of dresser and then, moments later,...
5. Burned middle finger of left hand and then...
6. Burned thumb of right hand.

Blisters have formed. Yowza. No more mishaps for today, please.

Something to look forward to (or, Something to which to look forward)

My co-worker (who thinks he's my boss) is going on vacation tomorrow. I think he may try to stick me with an unpleasant task that he's been putting off doing. Some man (we'll call him "Unhappy Patron") called co-worker a couple of weeks ago, and it seems as if co-worker didn't call him back, so Unhappy Patron called another co-worker, and now that someone else knows about Unhappy Patron, co-worker can't ignore him anymore. This morning he asked me to pull a file related to U. P. for him. I refrained from asking him why he didn't pull the file in the first place. U. P. probably wants an answer A.S.A.P., but co-worker is leaving for vacation tomorrow. How convenient.

He'll probably try to fob off on me the unpleasant task of dealing with U. P.

But I'm not going to do it! I will be strong!

I hope...

Horrifying discovery

Last summer I worked really hard to lose the pudge I'd put on in the years (7) since I graduated from college. I was still out of shape, mind you, but at least through careful eating I had lost the weight, and I figured that exercise would tone up the large quantities of flab remaining on my slender frame.

Then I got comfortable. Complacent. Lazy. I've been eating a lot of junk food lately. Still, after weighing myself on my grandparents' scale and seeing that I was actually 3.5 pounds lighter than I had been a month or so ago, I figured the 4 or so times I've exercised in the past month and a half must have really paid off! This weekend, however, I learned that it was not so. Alas, weight loss isn't that easy.

We were at Dillard's on Sunday, buying a pod coffee maker for JLR, when I happened to notice a scale sitting out in the housewares department. I looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and then I hopped aboard. Apparently, Granna's scale is off. By about 10 pounds. Make that 10.5

Looks like it's back to careful eating for me. Half pb & honey sandwich + grapes for lunch. *Sigh* So hungry...

Incident report, 6/27/05

1. Ran into electrician's foot with dolly/cart thing.
2. Ran into Deals' foot with cart.
3. Almost mowed down two people at UNT libraries with cart.
4. Put ding in wall at UNT library with cart.

(I am dangerous with a cart, people! Look out!)

5. Squished Deals' finger in bicycle wheel.
6. Banged knee on cart. (Owwwwwww)

Incident report, 6/26/05

1. Spilled water on foot while washing dishes.
2. Accidentally jabbed

JLR

with handle of Swiffer as she walked by. (side note: It's Swiffer, folks. Swiffer. Not "Swifter." There is no "t".)
3. Sneezed on arm.
4. Stepped on JLR's foot.
5. Hit self in other arm with cabinet door.

Hick Its Worsen Whirs

I thought that tennis this week would go better than tennis last week. After all, at least this time I remembered right away that if I don't keep my eye on the ball, I'll miss it every time. I was bound to be able to return at least a few serves; maybe we'd even be able to lob it back and forth 7 or 8 times.

I called D. to let her know when I arrived at the tennis court and to tell her that since there was no one else there yet, it was all ours (mwah-hah-hah). Then she gave me the news. There had been a small crisis when she'd tried to leave the house. For some reason, the canine members of her family (Dolly and Gypsy) were having none of it. Major fit-pitching...so D. brought them with her. I love those two dogs, so I didn't have a problem with this, especially since D. assured me that the dogs would very quickly get bored and go lie down in a corner. This was true for Dolly. Gypsy, on the other hand...

I guess the problem was that we were playing with Gypsy's tennis balls. We haven't bought any of our own, so D. brought some of Gypsy's. They're very friendly-looking (smiley faces on them), but Gypsy feels a sense of ownership towards them. We quickly discovered that if we wanted to hit the ball and forth, we really had to hustle because if Gypsy got there first, she would take the ball and run with it. Maybe she'd bring it back to you, and maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd put it somewhere on the sidelines. In any case, she'd get to chew on it. That brings us to the little matter of the spray.

It's what's been missing from my game. I tend to get overheated when playing tennis. No problem, says Gypsy. I'll just slobber all over the tennis balls so that when you hit one, a fine mist will gently descend upon your face.

Once we were good and sweaty, Dolly decided to get into the game. Have you ever tried to serve a tennis ball while a dog stands behind you, thoroughly licking all the sweat off your legs?

Also, we ran into D.' s mother and step-father, who were out walking their two dogs. No problem ordinarily, but Piper doesn't like D.'s dogs. Much barking. Actually, there'd been much barking throughout the neighborhood while we played. I wondered if all the dogs in a three-block radius could hear us yelling, "Go get the ball, Gypsy! Go get the ball!"

We accidentally hit one of the balls out of the court, and it landed in a bit of "nature." Now, D. assures me that it isn't actually "nature," and that the faint rustling sound I kept hearing was, in fact, a drainage ditch. This reassured me until we decided to go fetch the ball after our game. It was dark by this point, and I couldn't really see what kind of ground cover we were trodding through. What does poison ivy look like? I don't know, and neither does D., despite her camping experience. "It's shiny," she says. Great. And how do we tell if it's shiny in the dark? I got out of there as quickly as I could, and so far, so good. No rashes. Yet.

So now I'm just worried about West Nile.

New layout

Hap-beeeeeee. Get it? Hap-bee?

Incident Report, 6/24/05

1. Opened heavy old city directory, which landed on tip of left-hand ring finger.
2. Almost stepped on framed photograph sitting on floor. Weaved to avoid stepping on photograph. Almost fell during weaving. Spun around during weaving operation. Did a little dance move to make it look like I’d planned it all along.
3. Mowed down man in line at Half Price Books.
4. Hit self in head with tennis racket at tennis this evening (extra points for that one!).
5. Tripped on curb on campus when going to meet JLR.

Starts with "J," Rhymes with "Crackjass"

This morning on my way to work, I was sitting at the light at Greenville and Lovers Lane, waiting to turn left onto Lovers. Some bozo in a white Tahoe was sitting at the other side of the light, waiting to turn right onto Lovers. When I got the left turn light, I pulled forward, and Bozo waited until I started to turn and then turned right! He turned into my lane! I had to sit behind Bozo at the light at Lovers and 75. Booooooo.

Incident Report

Incident report, 6/23/05
1. Jabbed face with arm of sunglasses.
2. Over-vigorously scrubbed behind left ear, resulting in minor injury.
3. While in shower, dropped soap on floor outside of shower.
4. Dropped soap in shower.
5. Accidentally stabbed self in back with seriously strong thumbnail.

Incident report, 6/22/05
1. Put milk on second shelf on fridge, knocking lid off in the process. Spilled milk (didn’t cry).
2. Poured milk on second bowl of cereal. Put milk away, repeating incident no. 1 (didn't cry; muttered under breath).

I work in an archive. There are two types of patrons I don’t like to call. The first, I hate to admit, are the elderly. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like helping them. I just don’t like talking to them. Some, like my late grandmother, like to talk even more than I do, and you spend 20 minutes with them on the phone. I don’t really mind that, though, except on days when I have a lot of work to do. Some, like my grandfather, won’t talk to you any longer than is absolutely necessary to convey information, but they don’t bother to wear their hearing aids, so you have to shout into the phone and repeat every other sentence.

However, I’d take a whole day’s worth of elderly patrons to avoid one call to a “theorist.” I would say “conspiracy theorist,” but they aren’t all researching conspiracies. Some just have a particular theory that they aren’t willing to shake, even when it is perfectly clear to any sane person that their “theory” is actually “hooey.” I could stand that, though, if they didn’t then try to manipulate facts to fit their hooey. It’s not possible that you’re related to Famous Native American Person X. Your ancestors came over from Europe after Famous Native American Person X was born and never came within 50 miles of him or any of his descendants, unless one year they all happened to be at the state fair at the same time. I can do some more research for you BUT IT STILL WON’T PROVE THAT YOU’RE RELATED TO THE MAN. NOTHING WILL PROVE THAT YOU’RE RELATED TO THAT MAN. Because you aren’t.

Conversation I had this morning:

Me: Well, I’ll look into it, and if I find anything, I’ll let you know.
Patron: I just want to know the names of his wives.
Me: Right. I’ll check it out and will see what I can find.
Patron: I have the names of some of his wives. I just need the names of his other wives.
Me: Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.
Patron: I’ve traced his first wife, xxxx to 1891, and his wife, yyyy, to 1899.
Me: Right. Okay, well, let me see what I can find—
Patron: I’ve traced….

This went on for 10 minutes. I am not kidding. All attempts to get off the phone and get on with my work (and her research, I might add) were thwarted. She was a nice patron, and I wouldn’t otherwise mind talking to her, but I didn’t understand why we needed to repeat ourselves for 10 minutes.

A few years ago, a crazy woman called me who, I hope, will never call me again.

Apparently, according to her, John F. Kennedy is not the son of Rose and Joseph Kennedy (who, apparently, are from Montreal, and not from Massachusetts at all), but is rather the son of a Russian czar. His (JFK's) first wife was Maria, Queen of Yugoslavia. He was raised in Europe. He went to law school in The Hague. Rose and Joseph Kennedy are related to "negro gypsies" from New York. Also Ted Kennedy is Jack Ruby's brother. Also she claims that Fidel Castro is related to some folks in Buffalo who are related not only to Lee Harvey Oswald but also to Jackie Kennedy.

She said she was working for John & Robert Kennedy when JFK was assassinated, and she's related to John Kennedy, and she was shot in the head in Dallas, and I think it has affected her. She says that she was raised by John Kennedy in Yugoslavia and in the Netherlands around 1938.

She wanted to know if I had any proof, and if not, why not. I tried to fob her off on the Sixth Floor Museum, but it didn’t work. Apparently, they had no proof, either.

Why don’t we use insults like this anymore?

As Horace said to his friend Mike in Death at the President's Lodging
(much as my friends and I throw insults at each other without meaning
--or taking--offense):

"And you are a nasty, unwholesome, misshapen,
degenerate and altogether lousy scion of outworn
privilege.  And the increasing unpleasantness of your
personal habits, your thick and incoherent utterances,
and above all your embarrassing and indeed painful
inability to talk sense have long convinced David and
myself --though we have striven to conceal it--that
you are already undermined beyond human aid by the
effects of retributive disease.  And your
tailor--whose taste perpetually astonishes me, let me
add--would be grateful for any blood-money you might
raise on [solving the book's mystery]:  it would help
feed the eight children your bad debts are depriving of
sustenance."

It seems these days that most people use cuss words (or whatever
they can do without having to put any thought into to it) in
order to insult someone.

It's best to keep the fridge cleaned out

If I cleaned out my fridge on more a regular basis, I would have known that I still had two brownies left over from Friday night, but instead I didn't even check to see what was in the white unmarked Styrofoam container until last night. I had assumed--since I don't clean out the fridge very often--that it was something from so long ago that I didn't want to see what it was. Alas, I should have checked. Dang it. Wasted brownies.

Does anyone else use the word "frigo" for "refrigerator"? I'd like to try to sell a refrigerator to Viggo Mortensen so that I can say, "Frigo, Viggo? Viggo? Frigo?"

We’re in a fight

My co-worker, D., and I had plans to play tennis the other night. I told her I had to eat dinner first (food is my primary motivation in life) and that I would call her when I was done. Also, I said, I needed to shave my legs.

“You’re shaving your legs?” she asked, unhappily.

“I have to,” I replied.

“Don’t shave your legs,” she pleaded. “If you shave, we’re in a fight.”

This is D.’s most-used expression. Hand her a sarcastic comment? We’re in a fight. Make fun of her? We’re in a fight. Toss out a platitude when one of her projects goes wrong? We’re in a fight. It’s a handy little expression.

After dinner, I called her at her office because she was still at work (of course).

“I’ve eaten,” I told her.

“Are you shaved?” she demanded.

Rolling my eyes, I told her that I planned to take care of that part while she went home and changed.

We finally found an available tennis court (D. swore that the first two courts we went to were never in use when she jogged passed them at the same time of day on other days), but there were some people circuit training around the perimeter. We weren’t sure, at first, what they were up to. Some of the women were suspiciously perky. Do they not have to work for a living (this was Highland Park, after all), or did they have a crush on their trainer? Or, even worse, were they the type of people who got all cheerful at the thought of exercise?

I should mention at this point that D. and I are both terrible tennis players. D. played various sports in college, and she runs a lot, so she’s in pretty good shape. I, on the other hand, am not. I love tennis, but I can’t run for long periods of time, and since we’re not good at tennis, we spent most of our time running after stray balls. I was glad whenever I hit a ball too hard and D. had to run after it because it meant she had her back to me and I could surreptitiously check my watch. After about 45 minutes I declared an inability to play any longer.

“Let’s just play ‘til 8:30,” she said. “Then we’ll get in a full hour.”

I was sure to let her know when 8:30 rolled around, but then she wanted to play until we could hit the ball back and forth 30 times. When it became painfully obvious that we could play until next Tuesday and we still wouldn’t be able to make that happen, she lowered her standards to 20. Then 10. Then 5. Finally, she had to admit defeat. Or rather, she was willing to let me admit defeat. She ran lines while I cooled my tired body with a slow walk around the court.

What it must be like to be fit!

Holy cow, he knows the words to "My favorite things"!

http://www.postednote.com/marry.htm
see reason number 57.

JLR and I were excited when we discovered that Kuby's (in Dallas) sells schnitzel. Disappointed to discover that it is not sold "with noodle." Even more disappointed to discover that NO ONE knew what we were talking about when we complained about the lack of noodle. Glad to know that someone else out there understands.

Why I will no longer be scrolling through blogs using the "next blog" button

The last time I did this, pictures of naked people popped up on my screen. And I didn't even get to see parts of them that would allow me to determine whether these were attractive people. Ew.

The problem with working for a small organization

I was gone for one day--one day!--and my workload doubled. I have way too many phone calls to return now. Where did all these people come from? Why didn't they call me when it was slower? Why wait until I am already behind?

It was a good day off, though. I spent it with my dad. I couldn't see him on father's day (because I had to work), so I took the day off on Monday. We watched Perry Mason, then went to Denny's for lunch (we're breakfast-for-every-meal type of people), then to Home Depot to buy some mulch. We went back to the house to watch Magnum P.I. and Rockford Files, then the first half of Nightstalker. A good day, overall.

Who forgot to wipe their shoes?!?!

Not to sound like an overbearing housewife, but someone tracked muddy sticky stuff into the archives and did not clean it up. Now I have to do it.

And before anyone suggests that clumsy-me may have done it myself, I will add that if I had that kind of stuff on the bottom of my shoes, I think I would have noticed.

Why Interns Are Cool

One of our interns is lending me the first season of MacGyver, which she has on DVD.

Oh, yeah. That's right. MacGyver.

Link fixed

We've fixed the link for Anti. It no longer points to a microsoft page. Hurray!

Spill Watch

No spills or accidents yet today...

The spill factor

It doesn't take me long to spill something on myself each day. I'm thinking of creating some sort of grading scale for determining how clumsy I am on any given day. Perhaps I could use a scale of 1-10, with 1 being a spill-free day and 10 being a really bad day for spills and incidents. For example, today I managed to get a stain on my shirt before lunch but not before I got to work and, in fact, not before I left the house (which would put me on track for a 10). No bruises today, but the spill was a doozy, so I think I might put today at about a 4 or 5.

It isn't easy, being lazy.

I posted my first...um, post, on Friday. Then, on Sunday or Monday my sister informed me that two people had commented on my post. This was news to me because I hadn't bothered to look at the blog over the weekend. I only have the blog because my sister bugged me about it and I was too lazy to put up a fight. She signed me up and then picked the layout while I read a book (Her: Do you like this one? How 'bout this one? Me: Hmm? What? Did you say something?).

Anywho, when she told me about the comments, she also told me that I had to reply to all of the posts. She says it's rude not to do so. Man. I like reading blogs, but I don't know that I would have started one if I'd known it was going to be so much work.

A few statements about grapefruit:

I don't like it. I thought I might because it's fruit, and I love most of the different type of fruit that I've tried. I bought three grapefruit at the grocery store the other day because they were on sale (three for a dollar!). I tried eating it plain. I tried eating it with sugar. I tried eating it with salt. I just don't like it. It's like the grapefruit tree forgot to put the sweet part in the fruit. The discovery was rather disappointing.