Me: Guess what! I have good news and bad news.
Gretchen: Okay. What is it?
Me: Actually I don't have any good news. I just have pneumonia.
Gretchen: What!?
Me: Let's go get ice-cream! My treat!
Gretchen: Okay!
If she didn't go for the ice-cream thing, I would've tried showing her this picture which has made me laugh for approximately thirty-three hours so far.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
I'm pretty sure it still counts.
I observe Meatless Mondays by ordering my cheeseburger without bacon.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Is this the most morbid thing you've ever seen?
 |
| Plus, doesn't the hole in its head look like a gunshot? |
I love Valentine's Day. (This might be because I base my love of holidays on how cute they are and Valentine's Day, after all, is by far the cutest of days.)
I love, in particular, the kitschiness of it all. I mean, it's pink and red and glittery and doily-y and terrifically garish. What's not to love? I delight in the cloying sentimentality which is saying something for a girl who, as a rule, avoids sentimentality in general. I like that, as a society, we all agree that on one day we will act like elementary-schoolers and exchange silly cards with silly poems, eat red and pink candies and be dorky.
1. 69¢ Love Songs on iTunes (the 60's R&B Love Songs playlist? I own. I love.)
2. the Justin Bieber cards I'm passing out to all my coworkers (and the straight face I'm trying to keep while doing it)
3. my ever-fun roommates who are always supportive of super-dorky Valentine's decorations and parties
4. the Dove Promises wrappers that told me to be my own Valentine and, if that fails, reminds me that chocolate will *always* be there for me
 |
| (Not that I ate like 12 of these in one sitting the other day or anything.) |
5. this precious wreath I made with my own two hands and is practically my favorite thing on this planet right now
Justin and I wish you the happiest Valentine's Day ever!
Like baby, baby, baby, oh.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
I wonder what I would've said if he'd actually wet himself.
Did I tell you that my beloved little brother is back in Utah and just living a measly 45 minutes away? (!) Isn't that a wonderful thing? I dearly love being a sister; last year was a decidedly wretched year with no siblings nearby to be sisterly to. What a delightful gift it is to have him here.
Last week we had dinner together and he mentioned he'd been in a little fender-bender. Well, not even a fender-bender. It was like a fender-teenylittlescratcher. A few days later I was on the phone with my dad and asked, Hey, have you talked to Jimmy lately?" After being told they'd spoken the day before I said, "Oh, so you know about the accident."
"What accident!?!" my father thundered.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!
"Oh, nothing," I lied, except I am an exceptionally bad liar and I'm sure I wasn't convincing, what with my voice being three octaves above it's normal range.
"What happened, Kim?" the old man gritted and I had no choice but to feed him a story.
"Um, no just he had an accident . . . in class . . . he, uh, . . . wet his pants."
"What?!"
"Oh, yeah, weird right? He's like totally embarrassed about it so don't mention it to him. Like ever."
Because, in my mind, my father would rather learn that his 21-year-old son lost bladder control during a college lecture than know that there is a half-inch long scratch on his 15-year-old Buick.
Yep.
And maybe this should stand as a reminder to all my siblings: if you are keeping something from our parents you have to tell me not to say anything because, when backed into a corner, I might come up with a story that's much, much worse.
Last week we had dinner together and he mentioned he'd been in a little fender-bender. Well, not even a fender-bender. It was like a fender-teenylittlescratcher. A few days later I was on the phone with my dad and asked, Hey, have you talked to Jimmy lately?" After being told they'd spoken the day before I said, "Oh, so you know about the accident."
"What accident!?!" my father thundered.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!
"Oh, nothing," I lied, except I am an exceptionally bad liar and I'm sure I wasn't convincing, what with my voice being three octaves above it's normal range.
"What happened, Kim?" the old man gritted and I had no choice but to feed him a story.
"Um, no just he had an accident . . . in class . . . he, uh, . . . wet his pants."
"What?!"
"Oh, yeah, weird right? He's like totally embarrassed about it so don't mention it to him. Like ever."
Because, in my mind, my father would rather learn that his 21-year-old son lost bladder control during a college lecture than know that there is a half-inch long scratch on his 15-year-old Buick.
Yep.
And maybe this should stand as a reminder to all my siblings: if you are keeping something from our parents you have to tell me not to say anything because, when backed into a corner, I might come up with a story that's much, much worse.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
On Being Sick and Also Never Mopping the Floor
One of the most precious moments for an early childhood teacher is when one of your darling little ones climbs into your lap, wraps his arms round your neck, gazes into your eyes and says, "I love you."
Much more commonly, a child will climb into your lap, wrap his arms round your neck, gaze into your eyes and then sneeze directly into your open mouth.
AND, once this happens to you at least once a week during every cold and flu season for several years in a row, you probably won't even bat an eye. In fact, you'll probably just rinse your mouth with soda and call it good. (I'm pretty sure Dr Pepper is a dentist.)
Young children won't share toys without a fight, but they're generous with their mucus.
Those who interact with these lovable little carrier monkeys tend, until their adaptive immune system kicks in, to be forever sick with something. Usually something gross. Luckily, I've been exposed to enough germs to last a lifetime and usually only get knock-down sick once or twice a year. Last week was my one allotted illness for the year. A couple weeks ago I was at the receiving end of a terribly slobbery toddler-kiss; the kisser was diagnosed hours later with RSV. Awesome.
I didn't mind the fever, the croupy cough and the general achiness but I hated losing my voice for over a week. (For someone who talks as much as Kelly Kapoor, loss of voice is tantamount to loss of limb.) In fact, I still haven't quite recovered and if you call me you can hear firsthand what my roommate is calling my 1-900 number voice.
I took a couple days off work to recover and OH MY GOSH ARE SICK DAYS AWESOME OR WHAT? I totally forgot being home sick is pretty much the best time ever. And also? How long are days? I couldn't believe it. When you're rushing around with work, church, family, chores and whatnot the days never seem long enough. But when you're in your sweats watching Law & Order: SVU and eating a grilled cheese sandwich? They are niiiiiiice and long. (Speaking of grilled cheese sandwiches, is 3 in 24 hours too many??)
Every once in a while I would get up and pad around the house in my slippers but seeing the unmade bed in the bedroom, the unwashed hair in the bathroom mirror and the atrociously unmopped kitchen floor would drive me back to my blanket cocoon and dreamy Elliot Stabler.
Oh, but that kitchen floor. It is perfectly horrendous. I used to be really on the ball with the floor mopping. Every other Saturday, plus whenever we had company, plus whenever anything spilled, I was all over it. But lately? I don't know. It's just not happening. Not to mention I can't find the mop anywhere. Or the bucket, come to think of it. I may have accidentally maliciously destroyed them in my sleep. I've done the whole Swiffer WetJet thing occasionally over the past couple months (did I just admit to the Internet that I haven't properly mopped my kitchen floor in a couple months?) but usually I look pointedly away as I walk into the kitchen with the idea that if I can't see the floor, it doesn't exist and therefore ne'er needs a mopping.
But that's the beauty of sick days. It's the best excuse for everything. The floor is dirty? Too bad. I'm sick. I shouldn't be eating so many butter-laden carbs? Well, I'm sick. I'm allowed. (Wait--I have a cell phone picture to go along with this . . . )
I really need to do this more often.
(Just checked with HR; I have 165 hours of sick leave accrued. Oh, I am starting to get some ideas . . . )
Much more commonly, a child will climb into your lap, wrap his arms round your neck, gaze into your eyes and then sneeze directly into your open mouth.
AND, once this happens to you at least once a week during every cold and flu season for several years in a row, you probably won't even bat an eye. In fact, you'll probably just rinse your mouth with soda and call it good. (I'm pretty sure Dr Pepper is a dentist.)
Young children won't share toys without a fight, but they're generous with their mucus.
Those who interact with these lovable little carrier monkeys tend, until their adaptive immune system kicks in, to be forever sick with something. Usually something gross. Luckily, I've been exposed to enough germs to last a lifetime and usually only get knock-down sick once or twice a year. Last week was my one allotted illness for the year. A couple weeks ago I was at the receiving end of a terribly slobbery toddler-kiss; the kisser was diagnosed hours later with RSV. Awesome.
I didn't mind the fever, the croupy cough and the general achiness but I hated losing my voice for over a week. (For someone who talks as much as Kelly Kapoor, loss of voice is tantamount to loss of limb.) In fact, I still haven't quite recovered and if you call me you can hear firsthand what my roommate is calling my 1-900 number voice.
I took a couple days off work to recover and OH MY GOSH ARE SICK DAYS AWESOME OR WHAT? I totally forgot being home sick is pretty much the best time ever. And also? How long are days? I couldn't believe it. When you're rushing around with work, church, family, chores and whatnot the days never seem long enough. But when you're in your sweats watching Law & Order: SVU and eating a grilled cheese sandwich? They are niiiiiiice and long. (Speaking of grilled cheese sandwiches, is 3 in 24 hours too many??)
Every once in a while I would get up and pad around the house in my slippers but seeing the unmade bed in the bedroom, the unwashed hair in the bathroom mirror and the atrociously unmopped kitchen floor would drive me back to my blanket cocoon and dreamy Elliot Stabler.
HELLO!
Oh, but that kitchen floor. It is perfectly horrendous. I used to be really on the ball with the floor mopping. Every other Saturday, plus whenever we had company, plus whenever anything spilled, I was all over it. But lately? I don't know. It's just not happening. Not to mention I can't find the mop anywhere. Or the bucket, come to think of it. I may have accidentally maliciously destroyed them in my sleep. I've done the whole Swiffer WetJet thing occasionally over the past couple months (did I just admit to the Internet that I haven't properly mopped my kitchen floor in a couple months?) but usually I look pointedly away as I walk into the kitchen with the idea that if I can't see the floor, it doesn't exist and therefore ne'er needs a mopping.
But that's the beauty of sick days. It's the best excuse for everything. The floor is dirty? Too bad. I'm sick. I shouldn't be eating so many butter-laden carbs? Well, I'm sick. I'm allowed. (Wait--I have a cell phone picture to go along with this . . . )
 |
| Homemade whole-wheat bread, enormously pretentious cheese and a week's allotment of butter? Yes, please. |
I really need to do this more often.
(Just checked with HR; I have 165 hours of sick leave accrued. Oh, I am starting to get some ideas . . . )
Friday, January 28, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
I think it's official.
Being white trash is one of those things that's hard to define, but you know it when you see it.
And I think I see it.
In myself.
Reason #1: The sheer amount of time I spend at the Walmart is alarming. And the fact that I call it "the Walmart". A quick search of the ol' blog shows I've mentioned that horrible store 7 times. This far surpasses my mentions of a non-WT store:
(Well, I guess there's one now.) Any given week I'd say I'm at the Walmart at least two times. And that's a modest estimate.
Reason #2: I love sweatpants. I have about a dozen pairs of black or gray sweatpants and I don one each night within minutes of my return home. My very favorite pair are so soft, it feels like you're wearing pants made out of rainbows and babies. They have pockets, too! Do you even know how hard it is to find sweatpants with pockets? This particular pair is black but once I dripped a little bleach on one of the legs BUT THEN I colored in the little spot with a Sharpie. And you can hardly even tell.
Reason #3: this is what my feet look like 95% of the time I'm not at work:
Oh, I love flip-flops! They are certifiably trashy but, oh, do I love them!
Reason #4: I cannot bear to throw something out if it still works. That's why I've never owned 2 working cell phones in my life: the phone must be completely inoperable before I will consider shelling out for a new one. And I don't know if any of you saw the Rodeo in her final days but, seriously, that baby was finito. And then one time one of the legs on my coffee table broke off and I super-glued it back on. Therefore many of my belongings are in various stages of deterioration and I'm okay with that. Call me a cheapskate but I can't live with the idea of filling up landfills with stuff that still totally works!
And I think I see it.
In myself.
Reason #1: The sheer amount of time I spend at the Walmart is alarming. And the fact that I call it "the Walmart". A quick search of the ol' blog shows I've mentioned that horrible store 7 times. This far surpasses my mentions of a non-WT store:
(Well, I guess there's one now.) Any given week I'd say I'm at the Walmart at least two times. And that's a modest estimate.
Reason #2: I love sweatpants. I have about a dozen pairs of black or gray sweatpants and I don one each night within minutes of my return home. My very favorite pair are so soft, it feels like you're wearing pants made out of rainbows and babies. They have pockets, too! Do you even know how hard it is to find sweatpants with pockets? This particular pair is black but once I dripped a little bleach on one of the legs BUT THEN I colored in the little spot with a Sharpie. And you can hardly even tell.
Reason #3: this is what my feet look like 95% of the time I'm not at work:
Oh, I love flip-flops! They are certifiably trashy but, oh, do I love them!
Reason #4: I cannot bear to throw something out if it still works. That's why I've never owned 2 working cell phones in my life: the phone must be completely inoperable before I will consider shelling out for a new one. And I don't know if any of you saw the Rodeo in her final days but, seriously, that baby was finito. And then one time one of the legs on my coffee table broke off and I super-glued it back on. Therefore many of my belongings are in various stages of deterioration and I'm okay with that. Call me a cheapskate but I can't live with the idea of filling up landfills with stuff that still totally works!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Gotta Love Her
One of my favorite friends and I were out shopping the other day. As we were leaving the store, we passed a small girl who looked to be about two years old. I grinned at her as we walked by, taking in her charmingly chubby cheeks, her hot pink coat and miniature boots.
My friend turned to me and said, "You know, whenever I see a little kid like that . . . "
"Yeah?" I responded to my dear friend and mother of three, expecting some profound words on mothering or commentary on the magic of childhood.
She continued, "I just think how funny it would be if I knocked them over as I walked by. You know, like just like 'BAM' they hit the floor and I keep walking." She jerked the jug of laundry detergent we'd just purchased up and pantomimed whacking a toddler with it. "Like that."
After I laughed for about a hundred years, I told my friend, "I'm so . . . happy you say the things you say."
My friend turned to me and said, "You know, whenever I see a little kid like that . . . "
"Yeah?" I responded to my dear friend and mother of three, expecting some profound words on mothering or commentary on the magic of childhood.
She continued, "I just think how funny it would be if I knocked them over as I walked by. You know, like just like 'BAM' they hit the floor and I keep walking." She jerked the jug of laundry detergent we'd just purchased up and pantomimed whacking a toddler with it. "Like that."
After I laughed for about a hundred years, I told my friend, "I'm so . . . happy you say the things you say."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I have a crush . . .
. . . on the UPS guy.
Is it his cute little brown uniform?
Or the mad dolly skills he's got?
Or maybe the way he slides the tablet-signy thing onto my desk?
Either way, I just can't wait for shorts weather to come back.
Is it his cute little brown uniform?
Or the mad dolly skills he's got?
Or maybe the way he slides the tablet-signy thing onto my desk?
Either way, I just can't wait for shorts weather to come back.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Confession #381
Sometimes I get "Ayatollah" and "Iacocca" mixed up in my head. Then sometimes I'm a few seconds behind in conversations about Iran and/or Chrysler.
(Does this mean I'm dumb?)
(Don't answer that.)
(But really, does it?)
</insecurity>
(Does this mean I'm dumb?)
(Don't answer that.)
(But really, does it?)
</insecurity>
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