Thursday, June 30, 2005
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?
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
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.
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).
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
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.
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!
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...
Monday, June 27, 2005
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)
Sunday, June 26, 2005
2. Accidentally jabbed
3. Sneezed on arm.
4. Stepped on JLR's foot.
5. Hit self in other arm with cabinet door.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
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.
Friday, June 24, 2005
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.
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.
2. Poured milk on second bowl of cereal. Put milk away, repeating incident no. 1 (didn't cry; muttered under breath).
Incident report, 6/22/05
1. Put milk on second shelf on fridge, knocking lid off in the process. Spilled milk (didn’t cry).
Thursday, June 23, 2005
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
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.
Apparently, according to her, John F. Kennedy is not the son of Rose and Joseph Kennedy (who, apparently, are from
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
She wanted to know if I had any proof, and if not, why not. I tried to fob her off on the
(much as my friends and I throw insults at each other without meaning
"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
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.
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?"
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
“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!
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
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.