Welcome to the Apple Factory

As I am sure that many of you are, Thanksgiving is this week. Well, it is for us Americans, anyway. Which is very sad for the rest of you, I think. Unless your country has its own day some other time of the year. But still... Anyway, I'm looking forward to having a legitimate excuse to gorge myself on delicious food. Instead of the usual, "Hey, it's Tuesday! Let's eat two pizzas because one of them is free!" And I'm looking forward to it for another reason: come November 28th, it's back to WeightWatchers. For real. None of this meandering around, sometimes staying in the points, but usually chucking the whole program by noon. I figure it's ridiculous to try to start anything the week of Thanksgiving, but the FATNESS must END. So Thursday will be a Farewell Feast for my fat. Or something like that.

Our family's custom is to gather at Sister-In-Law's mother's house. This means everybody. Mom, Papa, Sister, Brother, Sister-In-Law, both her parents, her two sisters, their husbands and their children, and maybe even her father's brother and his family. Sister actually has three sisters, but one of them moved away a few years ago. Otherwise, they'd be there, too. It's always a packed house. And even though we have SO MANY PEOPLE, we always end up with more food than we can possibly eat. Oh, but we TRY! And even though I tell myself not to, I ALWAYS end up eating so much I'm in pain. And then I have pie. And then I have second pie.

So this year, even though Thanksgiving is going to be a kind of last hurrah, I have made a deal with myself: I will only have ONE of anything. I will try as many things as I want and will put decent sized portions on my plate. But after I have eaten the serving I have given myself, I WILL NOT have any more of it. In other words, no seconds. If I'm still hungry (okay, not hungry, just wanting more food) after my first plate, I WILL ONLY have vegetables. I think this is an effective strategy--no deprivation, but no pain in the end either. I'll let you know how it goes. Because apple pie may be my downfall...

As is also our custom, Sister, Sister-In-Law, and I get together at one of our houses the day before Thanksgiving to bake up a storm. I'm usually in charge of rolls, since bread seems to be my forte. Sister makes some sort of pumpkin-y whipped dessert or pumpkin muffins--yum! Sister-In-Law usually makes pies. This makes the house smell amazing! But this year, we're doing it at Sister-In-Law's house, since she has finally finished her kitchen remodel (complete with new counters) and she wants to test it all out. This means it will be her house that smells good, not ours (luckily, this also means I don't have to clean our kitchen).

So, in the spirit of the holidays, we've turned out house into an Apple Factory. We have a scented oil thing that plugs into an outlet. It needed to be changed today and Sister found last Christmas's impulse buy of cinnamon-caramel-harvest-holiday-spice-OMG-APPLES type of scented oil. So: APPLE FACTORY. We plugged it in about an hour ago and about ten minutes ago, I was like HOLY APPLES BATMAN! In unrelated news, I'm hungry again. Hmmm... I may have to rethink the Apple Factory and WeightWatchers combination.

Prophetic Slap-Happery

Happy Six O'Clock in the Morning to you all!

That's right. It's 6:00 AM. No, I did not get up this early. I haven't gone to bed yet. I wish I could impress you with fabulous tales of my NaNoWriMo pursuits, how creativity struck right before bed and how I dragged myself to my (almost-iconic) purple couch and wrote passionately until the wee hours of the morning, unable to resist the siren call of the muses (I think I may be mixing mythology here...). But, alas. I cannot.

Here's the real story:

10:32 PM

Sister and I begin watching LOST. We've been doing other things all day--Her: Shopping with Mom and pinning crafty things on Pintrest; Me: Not writing.

11:14 PM

I begin doodling idly in Microsoft Paint. I've been reading a lot of Hyperbole and a Half and This Is Not That Blog lately, so I guess I think I can do it, too. I cannot. But that does not keep me from doing it anyway. This is probably why and how my novel will get written.
 
12:07 AM

Sister and I finish the last episode of Season Five of LOST. Now, anyone who owns television series (serieses?) on DVD knows that it is almost physically impossible to finish a season finale and NOT put in the next season's premiere when IT IS SITTING RIGHT THERE (RIGHT!THERE!) on your shelf. Especially when the finale was a cliff-hanger. Which, what show doesn't end the season with a cliff-hanger these days? The View? Probably. Anyway, I'm off track.

So even though it's late, we'll watch just one more episode, to make sure that people had really died/hadn't really died and all of that. We figure, "Tomorrow's Saturday! We never leave the house anyway. It's not like we work or anything!" Or at least I figure that. I have no idea what Sister is thinking and I shouldn't put words in her brain. I actually don't know how I'd go about doing that, but it sounds tricky and kind of messy. But that's beside the point. The point is, I fail to remember that the Season Six premiere is a two-episode-time-block-mega-episode-extravaganza, so it's over an hour and a half before we find out who's dead, who's alive, and that we really know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL ABOUT THIS STINKING ISLAND (well, Sister is maybe confused... I've seen them all, so I'm not that confused... only a little bit confused).

1:58 AM

We retire to our separate rooms--Sister to her peaceful slumber and me to my fitful tossing and turning (SPOILER ALERT! Oh wait, I already told you how this ends... Never mind, move along). I crawl into bed and do as I usually do: mess around on my iPhone and then read a chapter or two of my latest book. Right now, it's Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants #2, which I've already read, but I need to re-read because I haven't read #4 (I don't think). Plus, it's been awhile and I really want to read the newest one: Sisterhood Everlasting. Because Sister said it made her cry and she never cries. At books, at least. It's not like her heart is made of stone or she's Cameron Diaz from The Holiday or something. But if a book made her cry, it's probably worth reading.

2:38 AM

I can only get about ten pages before I want to noogie each character (this is not a reflection of Ann Brashares' work, but my own inability to deal with TEENAGERS right now). I turn out the light.

This is a pretty late hour for me most of the time, but recently, it's become the kind of late that 12:30 used to be. It's not obscenely late or anything. But it's definitely time to be asleep. So I close my eyes, turn on my left side, and snuggle close to my stuffed monkey named Cranston ahem, my extra pillow.

3:00 AM -ish

I toss and turn for a while. Then I lay with my eyes open, doing a pretty routine mental exercise that's half-fantasizing and half-book-plotting. Tonight, I'm wondering what it would be like if I (and by "I," I could mean either my actual self or a character like me) fostered-to-adopt a safe-haven baby. Please don't ask me where I come up with this stuff; heaven only knows and probably not even that.

I lay there, mentally redecorating Sister's library (the room we often refer to as Godson's room) as if I owned the place, putting the crib against one wall and the changing station with the baskets of cute-but-gender-neutral cloth diapers on the other wall, trying to decide if I want an old fashioned rocker (nostalgic, but tough on the carpet) or a glider/rocker (more functional, but takes up a lot of space), and imagining bringing this stranger-baby into my home forever and ever.

3:42 AM

Since sleep has detoured on the way to my house tonight, curiosity gets the better of me and I grab my phone. To start researching what safe-haven laws say about adoption. Yeah, really... I know. Just... I know.

I spend an inordinate amount of time and brain power dissecting the psychology of what would make a mother desert her child like that and the likelihood of her coming back to reclaim custody. Because I don't have a job, I don't own my own home (or even my own car!), and I'm single. So, yes, the trials and joys of adoption are EXACTLY what I need to be fretting over in the middle of the night. But usually these kind of mental rabbit trails are a good way to get my mind to disengage from the day and drift off to sleep. Unless I get into the storyline. Then all bets are off.

4:00 AM

I get up and go to the bathroom, hoping it's my bladder keeping me up.

4:05 AM

I crawl back in bed, blind in the dark because of the bathroom light. I re-tuck my covers, which have become ridiculously twisted from the turning and the tossing and the God-knows-what-else-ing. I hear the sticky notes that comprise my plot map becoming unstuck from the back on my bedroom door, one by one. I make a mental note not to use that surface anymore.

4:20 AM

I scavenge a string cheese from the kitchen. I'm feeling kind of shaky, almost hypoglycemic-ly.

I am not actually hypoglycemic.

4:26 AM

I think that maybe I should be using this insomnia episode for something productive. Like writing. Since I battled with my characters all evening and am not-quite-sure-but-almost-there-just-wait-one-more-minute-I-think-I've-got-it-oh-wait-no about my plot and my killer, I don't really feel up to it. I beg the gods of sleep to stop torturing me. I will tell them anything they want to know, just let me sleep.


4:44 AM

I play another round of Josephine on my Card Shark app.

4:51 AM

I begin composing this post in my head.

5:00 AM

I force myself to close my eyes and deep breathe, with the promise/threat that if I'm still awake at 5:30, I'll get up and get something accomplished. BUT! Only if I keep my eyes closed and really concentrate on sleeping.

5:27 AM

I don't want to blog this early. Desperate to use my last three minutes wisely, I turn on my lullaby.

5:29 AM

I realize OH HEY NO! It's not insomnia hypoglycemia. It's not my bladder or my eyelids or my left knee cap or my hypothalamus (although it IS kind of warm in my bedroom). It's not even an imagination/will-power issue that can be fixed by soothing music.

It's the pint of Starbucks Java Chip Frappuccino Ice Cream I ate while watching television.

You know, the ice cream made with REAL COFFEE?!

The kind of coffee with REAL CAFFEINE?!

Yeah. That one.

5:30 AM

Resigned, I get up and creep down the hallway to the living room, where my computer is plugged in. I grab my insulated polka-dot cup, because I am not worried about my bladder anymore. I decide NOT to fill it with ice, but just the coldest water my kitchen tap can give me, so as not to wake Sister.

5:31 AM

I manage to gather cup, laptop, and power cord without making a sound.

5:32 AM

I bash my giant rear end into an old glass of water on the side table, which crashes noisily to the floor. Noisily and wetly. Niiiiiiice.

5:32.5 AM

I stand cringing and wet-footed in the dark of the living room, praying Sister does not wake up and think she is being burgled. Again.

5:34 AM

I set the laptop on a flat surface (I almost use the back of the couch, quickly see this turning into an episode of the Three Stooges, and think better of this plan). I flip on the light, grab a few dirty towels, and whisper swear words to no one but myself as I clean up another mess caused by my inability to locate and manage all the parts of my GIANT BODY at the same time.

5:36 AM

I settle into my bedroom as quietly as possible and open my computer. I find the drawing I did earlier:

Who knew it would be a prophetic self portrait?

Forgive My Typos--My Hands Are Frozen Claws

It's officially winter here in Far North (I think I may have already said that on this blog or maybe on Twitter, but I cannot be bothered to go check). There's over a foot of snow on the ground, I feel like hibernating every evening at about 5:00 pm, and we've seen negative numbers several days in a row. And that's not "negative" like below freezing. That's "negative" like below zero degrees Fahrenheit.

This is last night's read-out from Sister's car, when we ran out to buy some food that we didn't actually end up buying. We didn't steal it or anything. We just didn't end up buying any food. It was kind of a wasted trip. OH! We returned movies. That's why we went out. AND we also wanted food. We were incredibly disappointed. In related news, WHAT IS UP with grocery stores in Far North closing before 9:00 pm? Seriously? What. Is. Up.

You know this summer, when people were complaining about the heatwave in the Midwest? I was kind of jealous. Okay, not really, because I cannot survive in anything over 80 degrees. Because I am a wimp and a sweater. No, I'm not a piece of clothing. I mean I sweat a lot. But only from the head, which makes me look like I just climbed out of the shower all summer. If the shower smelled badly and also made my face blotchy. Sorry, these are details that no one really needed to know. I've got a bit of an over-share thing going on right now. Anyway, the reason I bring up the heatwave is that people would kinda-sorta-almost-BRAGGISHLY say things like "It's 110 degrees today. IN THE SHADE!"

So  now I'm going to kinda-sorta-almost-BRAGGISHLY say "It was 7 degrees today. IN THE SUNSHINE!"

That's right. Seven. Like the number that comes before 8 and after 6. The number that apparently caused fear in the number six by consuming the number nine. Seven. For any of you who haven't experienced that particular degree of heat, let me just say that it is a mite bit CHILLY. 

Now, normally, I would be all complainy about the fact that I have to warm my car and scrape the ice off the windows and drive home from work all shivery and sad (and terrified). But I don't have a job. And I DO have a heated garage. And a sister who prefers driving over being driven. So my car is almost always at least 50 degrees when I leave my house and I don't stay places very long. So I won't complain about chilly cars. Or being chilly on my way to and from places. Because I don't really GO places.


But you know what I will complain about? Our furnace. It seems to have a problem. You see, we like to keep our house at 70 degrees. This is too hot for Brother and Sister-In-Law (who prefer about 65) and too cold for my parents (who prefer 72, although their house always seems colder than that so who knows...). I'm sure you each have a preference on this and I'm sure there will be some of you who say "Seventy? That is too hot! And expensive! And not Earth Friendly!" and I have to say that I really don't care. That's just where we keep it. Well, where we would if it weren't for our BLASTED furnace.


Like I said, we keep it at 70 when we're home, but if we're out or sleeping, we keep it at 66. And it's on a timer (set for the times we would usually leave for and return from work and when we go to bed and get up), so it switches automatically. Except when it gets cold out or the filter needs to be replaced (EVERY OTHER BLASTED MONTH it seems) or when it's feeling lonely and sad and needs a hug or for any other reason we cannot currently divine. Then it likes to stay at 66 all day. And no matter how high you put it, it blows cold air half the time and cannot seem to get any higher. Then, this morning, we woke up and it was 63. That is chilly! Especially when it's negative degrees outside.

Now, Sister is doing everything she can and should in order to keep us warm. This is not a post complaining about her or the house she lets me live in for ridiculously cheap rent that doesn't even need to be on time. This is a post complaining about the BLASTED furnace that is like a TEENAGE GIRL in its mood swings. And I WAS a teenage girl. I know ALL ABOUT the mood swings.

So, the whole point of this post has been to say, "You guys, I'm really cold today." Which I guess would have saved us almost 700 words. But whatever. Don't blame me. My brains are cold and I'm not thinking straight. I think I'm going to go boil my body in the gigantic bathtub in Sister's bathroom, which she also generously lets me use (see, Sister? NO COMPLAINING FROM ME!).

Wishing you warmth and... more warmth,
Elise

Buckat or A Square Shaped Feline

Satan's Cat has taken to sitting in very strange places. Do you remember when I said that she plays a game we call Statue Kitty? Where you look at her and she's sitting all primly in one spot, completely ignoring you, but if you look away and look back, she's somewhere else entirely, in the exact same pose and still ignoring you? That game? Well, anyway, this is not really like that. So... Um.Right.

It's not really a game. And it's not so much the same position. It's just that she's (all of the sudden) gravitating toward some really ridiculous places to hang out. So we'll be wandering around the house and come upon her and just shake our heads in confusion. It all started with Bucket Cat, or Buckat as we've taken to calling it. Then it was other buckets. And containers. Then it was anything at all, really.

You know what, pictures demonstrate this much better. And I had planned this to be a photo-heavy post. So let's move on.

The original Bucket Cat.

Variations on the Buckat Theme

Ah am TEH RULER OF TEH BUCKET! As such, I think I am entitled to a little PRIVACY in my bucket.

We know she has always liked to perch in inconvenient, but relatively normal (for a cat) places to sit:

You're making cookies? I don't thinks so, fatty. I will sit here and judge your food choices. And block the oven.

If I sit here long enough and nonchalantly enough, maybe you won't notice when I try to roam the counter-tops...

But some of the places she chooses to sit are purposefully (I swear!) unhelpful. Because the world revolves around her and if you do ANYTHING that does not focus on her, she will take matters into her own hands paws to get your attention back:

I will not TELL you to stop messing with the computer. But I WILL make it incredibly difficult for you to ignore me.

This show is stupid; pay attention to me instead. What laser eyes? Oh, that's just some of the demon coming out of me.

We've BEEN OVER this whole computer thing!

I may look cute and snuggly, but I really just think crossword puzzles are  BORING!

But recently, she's decided that being Buckat was not enough. She MUST CONQUER ALL CONTAINERS!

I will sit in this bucket for twenty minutes, six times a day, for the rest of time. Just watch me. Every time you look, I will BE IN THIS BUCKET. No, I don't CARE that it's a BOX. It's a BUCKET to ME.

Yep. I found another bucket. I think you underestimate my devotion to these buckets... They don't even need to be open!

What do you mean "I don't think this qualifies as a bucket?" It's a squarish container that I fit into. It also has the side benefit of being really inconvenient for you and you laundry pursuits. It's a BUCKET!

I know this drawer wasn't open a minute ago. I opened it. Duh.

ALL cats like paper bags. Stop judging me.

And then she was no longer content to rule only the buckets and set out on a quest to rule All Things Squarish, container or not. The first prong of her battle plan was to take on the towels. All towels must now submit to her and her...royal sittage.

You put this towel here for me, right? So that when you take your bath, I can be warm and relaxed, too, right? It wasn't for your neck, right? That's what I thought.

I have claimed this towel. Go away now and let us be alone for a little while.

This one is little, but it put up a heck of a fight. I MUST SUBDUE IT!

After all the towels were conquered, she moved on to all the other squarish HARD things:

Not only have I taken over this vent, but I am stealing all your warms, too. MUAHAHAHA!

I love when you do projects on the floor! In a few minutes, I will sit on top of a picture frame and conform my body to its exact shape, but I will run away before you can take the picture. FYI.

What is this "clipboard" thing you speak of?

I'm not sure what the compulsion is for her. But it makes for an interesting time at our house. You never know where you're going to find her, but you're pretty much assured she will be on top of something strange or inconvenient in a mostly squarish shape.

Staying home all day has turned me into such an intellectual, poignant, and relevant blogger, don't you think?

If You've Never Seen LOST and You Want To (Or You Couldn't Care Less About LOST), This Post Is Not For You

I'm going to have to make this a quick post today, because I have somewhere to be in an hour. But I didn't want to lose the momentum I've built up over the last...er... two days. Um... Yes, well, moving ON.

As many of you know (it's pretty inescapable knowledge if you've been around this blog for more than five minutes), I recently quit my job and am living the life of luxury. If luxury means "all the free time in the world, but no income and the need to buy a car VERY soon..." As many of you also know, Sister is currently between jobs. This is a recipe for lots of fun, but also absolutely no productivity.

We've been watching LOST. I came into the show in the middle of the third season, when they took a really long mid-season hiatus and ABC did a few of those hour long shows that were really just all of the highlights of each season. I stayed loyal through all the rest of the seasons and will not say anything bad about the finale, even though others (Brother and Sister-In-Law included) thought it was less-than-spectacular. Then I bought all the seasons. Or I got them as presents. I can't remember. It's not important.

Sister has never seen the series, except for the occasional episode at Brother and Sister-In-Law's house when THEY were catching up on DVD. She's a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to suspense and the supernatural and--oh who am I kidding? I am, too. In fact, in college, a friend had the first season on DVD and tried to get me to watch it and I chickened out and didn't come back to it for over a year. So I get why she was reluctant to get into it. But now that the show is over and I can warn her about the scary parts, she's willing to try it.

We've been taking it a lot slower than our other TV shows on DVD, since it's a little suspenseful, can get wearing, and we don't watch it as the last thing before bed (this is a good plan for anyone a little fraidy like we are). We started the first season last week and we just finished it today.

Anyway, we were watching the pilot episode. And I was warning her right before freaky things would happen. And we got to the scene in the cockpit with the injured pilot. And I warned her that he was still alive and would gasp awake and scare her (I had also warned her about the copilot falling out of the cockpit door and almost knocking over Kate and Jack and Charlie), that the Smoke Monster would be coming around soon, and that the stupid pilot who stuck his head out of the broken windshield would be getting exactly what one would expect, to be sucked out of the plane and ripped to bloody shreds. She appreciated this.

Now, one of the things I really appreciate (and also simulataneously hate) about J.J. Abrams and his crew is that they really know how to end an episode in the exact wrong spot so that you HAVE to jump to the next episode or disk (or wait desperately for the next week, back when it was on air). Sister is unaware of this element of LOST.

As we all remember, right after they run through the jungle to get away from the Smoke Monster and Kate finds the bloody body up in the tree, everything goes black, the strange exploding musical note plays signalling the end of the episode, and the white letters spelling LOST flash on the screen. I turn to Sister and (to emphasize the cliff-hanger-ness of the show) say, "And that's the end of the pilot."

And then I start laughing hysterically. Sister looks at me odd. Gasping, I spit out, "Completely unintentional double entendre!" She looks puzzled. I point at the screen. "End of the PILOT?"

And this leads me to: Why can't I be this funny ON PURPOSE?

Pirates Totally Do Yoga

I bought new yoga pants yesterday. They were on clearance at Target and I needed them for a costume I'm putting together. Except that I ended up going in a completely different direction that cost less than these clearance yoga pants, so I really should return them. They are black gaucho capri yoga pants that are one size too large that were more than I usually pay for anything on clearance (although that photo makes them look even worse than I think they look). They are, in a word, ridiculous. I should definitely return them.

Actually, let's back up and I'll tell you all about my costume adventure. Do you remember me mentioning that I'm going to a Christian ladies conference at the end of the month? Sister-In-Law is leading worship? And Sister is singing? And I suck at singing but I do media so I play on the computer while I pretend to sing but I'm actually seething with jealousy and you guys are remembering this, right? It's not like I've posted that much in the intervening time, so it should be pretty fresh--as fresh as anything I say to you is, because I'm sure you have other things like CHILDREN and HUSBANDS and WHOLE LIVES vying for your attention so you forget everything you read here as soon as you click away, but I don't blame you because if I had any of those things, I'd totally ignore you, too. Anyway: I'm going to a retreat a few hours away. That might have been the easier thing to write rather than the rest of the above paragraph, but I'm leaving it because it's my blog, so ha!

Can we just start over? Okay. So I'm going to a retreat thing. It's a three-day/two-night kind of deal with sessions and workshops and fellowship. On the second night, we always have a themed banquet where everybody dresses up. But not in fancy formal wear. Nope. In costumes! The dressing up has a lot to do with the theme of the weekend and also the event right after the banquet, so don't go thinking we're all crazy or anything. Anyway. Lots of the ladies go all out, but some don't dress up at all--it's pretty laid back and fun. I think my crew landed firmly in the "go all out" camp last year.

The theme was Superheroes. We all did costumes in varying assortments of black and pinks (mostly hot pink). Sister had fairy wings and a giant tutu she made herself. Sister-In-Law had a short black mini skirt, a cape, and "hoochie" boots (as she likes to call them). I wore all black clothing (yoga pants, baby!), with black cat ears and a black feather boa for a tail, but with a hot pink sequined mask and feather boa around my neck. It was AWESOME! (And if you're asking how any of those costumes tell people we have superpowers, you really don't understand us at all and it's your loss.) But last year set the standard pretty high for this year.

You see, this year, the theme is pirates. That's a much more narrow set of criteria. You can't reinterpret that to mean a variety of things like superheroes. Superheroes come in all shapes and sizes because their superpowers come in all forms. But a pirate? Is pretty much just... a pirate. You kind of have two options: Jack Sparrow or Slutty Wench. And this is a Christian Women's conference, so you can see my conflict.

So how do you get creative and have fun without looking like everyone else there or like someone you don't want to be? You turn to Sister-In-Law, who may ACTUALLY BE a superhero. She's pretty awesome and has already sewn herself a simple corset (no boning, but still AMAZING) that she will put over a white tunic-y blouse. She has also made a raggedy skirt and a sash. She'll wear last year's hoochie boots, a fake sword, and a bandanna on her head. The outfit looks spectacular! But if I have to sit with her, and I DO because I LIKE her, then the standard is even higher!

So the logical conclusion is to force her to help me create a look of my own. Because she's OBVIOUSLY more creative than I am. Off we went to Target to shop the clearance sales. I bought a black and tan striped shirt, the aforementioned yoga pants (with the goal to cinch them in at the calves to make them into kind of bloomer things), and a scarf to tie around my waist. But together, that was about $30. Which is okay, because I can wear each of those things (separately) again, but I wasn't entirely sold on it.

Then we busted out the big guns: Value Village. Now, I know they do ready-made costumes, but a)I'm looking for something more original; b) those things are EXPENSIVE; and c) I probably wouldn't fit into most of them. But the thrift shop part of the store? A veritable treasure trove (pun intended) of pirate booty (again, intended; how did you not see this one coming?).

I found some black crinkly linen capris that were $3, so I won't feel too guilty chopping them to make them look ragged. I also found a red skirt in the same material that was $5, so I'll chop that, too, and put it over the pants to create a water-waif effect. I kept saying, "It's a whole character! I have to look like I've been living ON A BOAT!" This, of course, led to several mental renditions of SNL's I'm on a Boat, but that's a different story for a different day (and if you look that up, beware of the swearing--for those of you who avoid the swearing).

And then, right before we were overwhelmed by the need to WASH ALL THE CREEPINESS OF USED CLOTHING OFF OUR BODIES WITH A BRILLO PAD AND BLEACH, I found a black and white striped shirt that gathered at the sleeves and had shrunk to almost a belly shirt, which means I can wear it a little jaunty with a black camisole under it--hopefully looking more "ruffian" than "Britney Spears." Because that's a much better look for me. And all of us, really. It turned out the shirt was 50% off, so I think it ended up being $2 or something relatively insignificant (in relation to the Target prices, or actually? clothing prices in general), so WIN!

In the midst of this, there were many comments along the lines of "They're really more of guidelines, anyway" and "Swash swash, buckle buckle." There was also a significant amount of snarkery about the non-pirateworthy clothing there. Sister and I found a matching set of green and brown floral skirts that ended up looking more like camo skirts than anything else. We decided that, if we were ever inclined to go hunting, they would be the centerpiece of our wardrobes. And for a while, we gathered a collection of Ugly Christmas Sweaters, but they reached a height of such epic hideousness that we gave up, fearing for our retinas. We thought about buying some really cute boots, but we couldn't get over the idea that SOMEONE ELSE'S FEET HAD BEEN IN THERE.

By the end of the trip, I had one and a half costumes and Sister was done--she found a stripey shirt and an ACTUAL corset, which was enough to complete what she's already got going on at home. Sister-In-Law, being both more creative and more organized than us, didn't need anything else piratey and instead bought two sports jerseys for the next time our worship pastor decided to do a Sports Sunday (in which the band and singers wear jeans and jerseys instead of the normal church clothing). Because that happens more than you would think.

I decided to keep the thrift store purchases and the scarf from Target ($7.50). But I'm returning the Target shirt ($13). And I'm totally gong to return the yoga pants ($11), too. Except. Well, the tags just fell off. Yes, they just FELL off as the yoga pants leapt from the bag and put themselves on my lower-half without my permission(I'm not sure how they removed the pants I was wearing at the time, but they DID). And their magic would not wear off by bedtime, so I HAD to sleep in them. And this morning, they looked so lonely that I almost ended up wearing them under my dress pants to keep them company. I didn't, because my butt already looks enormous in these dress pants. But I'm pretty sure Target won't take the yoga pants back now. Plus, I would totally cut them if they tried.

And that's the story of how I got new yoga pants.

What have you bought lately?

[In case the lack of ads on this blog and the zero product review posts I have done haven't clued you in, this blog is not monetized. So I wasn't paid to link those things to Target's website or anything. I'm just really into visuals. So full disclosure: no money changed hands in the making of this post. Except for the money I paid to Target for the privilege of owning these items. FYI.]

Physics, Inevitable Physics

I broke my bed this weekend.

And before you all start in on the fat jokes or the sexual innuendos, just listen to the story. The story in which 1. I am fat and 2. I hate physics and 3. No sex takes place (so if that’s the kind of story you’re looking for, you know, don’t waste your time).

Last Saturday night, Sister and I stayed up really late at Sister-In-Law’s house. Sister-In-Law has been asked to play piano and lead worship at an upcoming Christian ladies retreat. Sister-In-Law is nervous about this because she’s only been playing piano for a little over a year, so Sister went over to help figure out all the musical nuances and harmonies and compositions and all those other musical things that I pretend to understand, but really I’m just glad if I’m in the right key for more than 50% of the song. So. Sister helped musically and I helped. Not at all. But eventually, we realized that USUALLY when they sing, I get on a computer and put together a media presentation. It’s how I compensate for my faulty vocal cords. So Sister-In-Law handed me a computer and I went to town.

We were having fun singing. Oh, I was singing alright. Not well, but I was still singing. And then Brother came home. Now, Brother is an executive for a store that closes at 11:00 pm. So, if Brother is home after all of the closing duties and whatnot, it’s verrrrrrry late. By the time we got home, it was way past my bedtime. This is all pretty pointless setup to tell you that when I woke up on Sunday for church, I was tired. Like: could-barely-force-myself-to-roll-out-of-my-bed-this-“getting-up”-concept-is-not-even-an-option kind of tired. But I did. Because rolling out of bed would have caused some pretty severe bodily harm. I managed to open my eyes long enough to find some clothes that didn't clash too badly.

And I went to church. We even got there a few minutes before rehearsal. Sister and I high-fived. If you have met us, you understand what a triumph this can be. I spent the next five hours working, running around, and being “alert” which is something I would rather not be and so I put it in quotes.

After a rehearsal, two services, and endless socializing, Sister and I headed home, since no one really wanted to go to lunch with us. We’re pariahs or something. Okay, no. Not really. Brother and Sister-In-Law went to her parents’ house. Mom and Dad had food in a crockpot that was not enough for four. We don’t really have any other friends. Crap, we’re back to being pariahs. Anyway, moving on.

[By this point, you’re wondering why I’m telling you all of this and how the heck this relates to my broken bed and my fatness and physics and why I’ve been gone for over a week with no posts and barely a tweet and why this is the thing I’ve waited all this time to tell you and I really have no answers except for this next part, so listen up or you will have read almost five hundred words for nothing and that would be a shame.]

We got home and determined that the TIRED completely outweighed the HUNGRY. We decided to have a nap for lunch. Mmmm… yummy. I wandered around the hallway between the bathroom and my bedroom, taking off my jewelry and chatting at Sister, who had already made it into her bed because she is a napping expert. There was a lull in the conversation and I was ready for my nap, so I caled out, “Okay, well… I’m crashing!” to let Sister know that I would be in my room with the door closed in case she felt like continuing the conversation and talked and I wasn’t there, which would result in her feeling silly and/or frustrated with my lack of answer and nobody likes to feel that way, so I warned her.

Remember I yelled out “I’m crashing?” as in a colloquialism for “laying down in my bed and going to sleep”? Well, Sister and I are very literal people. So she yelled back, “3! 2! 1! CRASH!!!!” Hearing the countdown and knowing intuitively where she was going with it, I timed my steps to my bed to correspond and when she yelled “CRASH!!!!” I did. And so did my bed.

I thought it would be more of a flop. I’ve flopped into this bed before with no negative results. But I guess I was feeling exuberant that day. Or more likely, my recent weight-gain combined with the angle of my shoulder and also, you know, PHYSICS. 

Long story (and I am aware of how needlessly looooooong this story truly is) still pretty long, at least one, if not two slats, in my box spring are busted. So now the mattress sags in the center of the one end.

Right after it happened, I tried laying there for a moment, praying I hadn't jsut broken it and also knowign that my head was lower than my feet. So, you know. That prayer was answered pretty quickly and with a resounding, "DUH!" I knew I would never be able to sleep like that and that it might even mess up my back. BUT I NEEDED MY NAP! So I got up, pulled the mattress off and spun the box spring around so that the brokenness could live at the foot of the bed. I reassembled my bed, got back in, and eventually napped.

So, I’m currently sleeping on a saggy kind of slope. Which is bringing back all kinds of memories of when I lived with Crazy Boss Lady in a rented furnished home owned by an octogenarian couple with heart issues—the master bed was permanently propped at a 30 degree angle to help their blood flow or something. I have no idea. I just know that, for about 90 nights last year, I fell asleep in the normal sleeping position and woke up and the foot of the bed and had to crawl my way back to my pillows at least three times a night.

This is not a great headspace to be in, let me tell you, what with all the RAGE about my current boss and Crazy Boss Lady working down the hall from me. I’m pretty much already LIVING on Memory Lane. Apprently now, I’m having a block party.

Since the broken bed is the same one I slept on in high school and was given to me when I moved out of my parents’ home and OH YEAH IT’S A TWIN SIZE, I’ve been thinking of replacing it for a while now. But mattresses are expensive and I would really like to own my own car before I buy a nicer version (read: queen size) of something that I already have. AND? I bought agiant purple couch this summer. So there is no room in my bedroom for anything other than a twin bed (unless I don’t mind living without bookshelves and a dresser and I DO MIND). So why would I spend my money to replace something I already have but don’t like WITH THE EXACT SAME THING?

Except that I am fat and physics sucks and I will probably buy a new bed next week. The end.

Umm... Duh, Right?

This weekend, I finally cleaned the kitchen. There were a lot of dishes and no counter space and the trash needed to go out and the fridge had some spoiled food in it and it was. just. time. I don't mind cleaning, I guess, but I have to be in the right mood. It's hard to get up the motivation--I come home from "working"* all day and I just want to lay around. I haven't been feeling very motivated about anything in the last few weeks. But it was kind of getting out of hand. And when I finally do work up the will to clean, it's usually in a day-long frenzy of the dirt-blasting, dish-washing, laundry-doing, floor-scrubbing, life-organizing sort.

In completely unrelated news, I now have a clean bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, and living room, along with clean sheets, towels, clothes, and dishes.

I have known since early high school that I work better in an orderly environment. I know it sounds kind of strange. But sometimes, when my room would become a pigsty, I had terrible trouble concentrating on my homework. I would have to clean up before I could really get down to it. I also realized that I got out of bed faster and in a better mood if I didn't have to climb through piles of clothes and shoes and junk to get to the doorway. Who would have thought?

Since I have recently been feeling like my life is out of control and that I'm surviving in a strange limbo land, it only makes sense that this would be a step toward living again. I can't believe it took me this long to realize this might help me feel a little more focused and in control.


So I scrubbed. And I vacuumed. And I sorted. And I tossed. And I laundered. And I folded. And I cleaned. You get the picture by now, right? Okay, good. I thought so.

The list of things to do dwindled, but the frenzy was still running strong. I stood in the kitchen and stared at the gleaming counter tops. And decided to bake bread. Two kinds of bread, actually. Whole wheat bread and herbed focaccia.

Just as I need an orderly environment to thrive, I also need a physical outlet for my stress. I should totally join a kick-boxing class. Then I would have a lower stress level and a lower weight level. But I'm cheap and lazy. So instead, I bake break.

That sounded weird, right? Let me explain. Making bread requires kneading dough. Kneading dough takes your whole body. It's not just in the hands. It's in the arms and shoulders, too. You put your weight into it. It's kind of like having a punching bag. A punching bag that turns into starchy, carby comfort food when your aggression is gone. So it's a win-win situation.

The funny thing is, I know this. I know that I use bread as a stress release. I've even told people about my need to bake when I'm angry. I kind of can't believe I haven't made bread to combat the RAGE. I think I might need my brain checked. It's been moving very slowly lately.

So I used this weekend to get back the control. I cleaned. I made bread. I relaxed. I deliberately ignored my job. It was so good.

And this morning, I forced myself to get up a half-hour early and have breakfast and make my lunch. Because I have been stopping for a latte and a muffin every morning on my way to work and then picking up some kind of fast food for lunch so that I have an excuse to escape my office for an hour. But who do I think I am, Rockefeller? A month of eating out for two (or all three) meals a day is hard on a budget. And it's not like my job pays that great. Plus, calories, people! No wonder I look like a blimp. I am SO SLOW in the thinking department. This was like a Weekend of Clarity for me.


I ate cereal and sipped freshly brewed coffee while I made a cheddar, ham, and turkey sandwich on HOMEMADE wheat bread. Then I added a whole ton of other lunch-like things to my pretty polka dot cooler bag, since Sister is awesome and went grocery shopping while I cleaned. YOU GUYS! Our house now has food and a place to cook it AND dishes to cook it on. These are like Nobel Prize worthy accomplishments, people!

So even though today was a weird day in which my boss came into the office and chatted about nothing for several hours, left at lunch and came BACK (almost unprecedented) and chatted for several MORE hours. This was incredibly helpful; I accomplished a grand total of zero things. So... Not really unlike any of my other days.* Anyway, I think I was in the middle of a sentence up there and totally left it dangling. SO, even though today was weird and uncomfortable, I was still in control! I ate breakfast before I left, brought my own coffee in a travel mug, and left the office for an hour and ate my packed lunch at the park in my car (Because WINDY! Ohmygod guys, it's FALL!), all without spending extra money or calories on crappy food I receive through a window.

Today was a good day. Not great. Not good good like last Thursday. But still decent. I was in control. I was not a RAGE machine. I was able to let go of my work stuff before I walked in the door, into a clean and happy kitchen. All in all, an improvement over many of my days this summer. SUCCESS!

Now you tell me one (or all) of the following things:

1. Have you recently had a "duh" moment in which you realized a simple fix to a seemingly unfixable problem?
2. Do you like bread?
3. How do you deal with stress? 
4. How do you maintain/regain focus and control?
5. Have you baked my herbed focaccia yet?
6. Have you accomplished small things recently that you are completely proud of and want Internet recognition for?
7. What did you have for lunch today?

*Let's not pretend that what I do all day is actual work. Because it's not. It's a combination of  butt kissing, conflict avoiding, and secret blogging. Which is exhausting and kind of like working, but it doesn't result in any kind of marketable product. So, you know, "working."

Elise's Day Off Extravaganza

Before you get all judgy about the fact that I promised to post everyday and then went and...didn't post yesterday...I have to tell you something important. I didn't post yesterday, because I WAS BUSY HAVING A LIFE! No. Don't take that the wrong way. I'm not trying to imply you don't have a life. What I'm trying to imply is that I don't usually have a life, but that yesterday I DID!

Okay, so here's what happened. On Tuesday afternoon, I finally worked up the courage to ask my jerk-of-a-boss for a day off. I have not have one since the end of May. I've needed one since approximately the first week of June, when he got all buttmuncherish. So, I girded my lions (or something less... vaguely dirty) and asked for Thursday off to go to the State Fair with Sister because it will be $2 Thursday, but only if you get there between 12:00 and 2:00 pm (usual price is $11). Here's how the conversation went:


Me: (hesitantly poking the beast) "Hey, Boss? I have a quick question for you."
Boss: "Quick? I have time; it doesn't have to be quick..."
Me: (incredulous at this display of magnanimity)  "Well, the question itself is short, but the time it takes really depends on how long your answer is. So... May I have Thursday off to go the Fair with my sister?"
Boss: "Is [Coworker] going to be here?"
Coworker: "I'll be here."
Boss: "Then yes."
Me: (effervescent with joy, but trying to play it cool) "Wow! Thanks! I really appreciate that!" So cool, right?
Boss: (suddenly shifting into nit-picky voice, but still wearing his magnanimous face) "That was a quick question. I think we need another one. Give me a longer question."
Me: (knowing I will instantly regret this) "Well... I would like to take two days off at the end of September to go to a church retreat. I went last year. Umm... Right after you hired me?"
Boss: (remembering the world revolves around him) "Well, what am I doing at the end of September? Am I even in town?"
Me: (checking his calendar and hoping I don't need to worry about making observations) "You'll be at Big Conference In The Next Town Over."
Boss: "You should go to Big Conference In The Next Town Over, too."
Me: (feeling the conversation slipping from my fingertips)"Umm... I wasn't invited... I don't think anyone in my staff classification is allowed to go..." Seriously? Are you kidding me with this?
Coworker: (supremely unhelpful) Actually, we were invited, but we have to pay for it ourselves. Unless we volunteer to help register people or something... They haven't asked for volunteers yet, though. Thaaaaaanks....
Boss: "Well, then you should volunteer to register people or something... Hey, [Coworker], have we talked about Completely Inane and Entirely Off-Topic Subject yet? Because I think we should." Mouth gaping, I am left at a loss as to whether I get the time off or not as they move onto other things.


So... You know. I got Thursday off, but I may or may not be attending Big Conference In The Next Town Over that has nothing to do with my job and may come out of my paycheck instead of the church conference I'm trying to go to. So... Yeah. That.

Anyway. I still got Thursday off. So Sister and I made all kinds of plans. Wednesday night, after Youth Group (aka Hooligans Anonymous), we were going to go see Crazy Stupid Love at the local movie theater with our free movie passes that we've been trying to use for weeks. We went to the grocery store right before to stock up on cheaper-than-the-movie-theater snacks and smuggle them in with Sister's large bag (yes, we do this often). The grocery store took longer than we thought it would, but we still got there about three minutes before the start time listed on the theater's website. And found out they'd removed the movie the day before and forgot to change the listings, because... Who the hell knows why? The three seventeen-year-old "experts" running the place had no answers.

Angry, we decided to take our enormous amounts of candy and go home to watch something on our own TV. We stopped by Taco Bell on the way home, because... Who the hell knows why? We were hungry, decided candy wasn't enough, and Taco Bell is good angry food, I guess. We pay at the first window. We pull up to the second. The guy leans out the window. Like ridiculously OUT OF THE WINDOW. And then says, "We just ran out of beef. It'll be like.. a half hour or so..." Sister says, "Seriously? Are you kidding me?" The guys shrugs and says, "Sorry." Sister (at that point fed up with ALL customer service in general) grabs her credit card and says, "Then can I a refu---" Dude interrupts her and says, "Nah. Just kidding! Your food'll be out in a sec." Sister gives him what for, because. Well, we all know why, right? Because he's an idiot and could have said "yes" to her "are you kidding me?" but didn't, and also HE GOT BETWEEN US AND OUR TACO BELL. I didn't have to explain this, right?

Properly chastened ("Uhhh... Sorry. That's just something we... do. Like as a joke? Sorry?"), the dude hands us our tacos and we go home, where we proceed to watch several episodes of Grey's Anatomy, stuff ourselves with junk food, and try not to fume about our ruined plans. We stay up until at least one in the morning, since I don't have to work the next day (yay!). I sleep in, which is amazing. We take our time getting ready for the Fair, alternating getting ready activities with episodes of Law & Order SVU and eating leftover candy for breakfast. Best morning ever!

We head to the Fair around noon. I have a free parking pass, but I'm not sure if it's valid. It is! Success! We get to the gate. It is not $2 Thursday. Failure! Apparently that was only last week. The newspaper's website had it wrong. We're beginning to doubt the truth in anything we read online (Which? About time, am I right?). We pay full price, which is not that bad, but still. We shrug it off and head into the Fair.

I love the Fair. We've been going since we moved to this town before I was two years old. I used to love the rides. And the rigged games that lure you in with awesome prizes and flashing lights. Then it was the shops with all the cheap crap that seems cool at the Fair, but what do you do with a four-foot-tall inflatable Scooby-Doo once you get it home? As I grew up, I realized the best part of the Fair is the food.

We pretty much eat our way up and down the paths. Sure, we look at the animals and the farm produce, the crafts and photography. We peruse the artsy shops and watch the street performers. But we really go for the food. Once we've eaten all the favorites (aka made ourselves sick on carbs, grease, and sugar), it's time to go home. This year, that took abut four hours. By the way, we had this whole plan to photograph all the things we ate for me to post and blog about. But we kept forgetting and eating them and then remembering and none of you want to see photos of sad empty paper plates and smudged napkins, right? The first time we forgot, we actually went up to someone who had just ordered what we had already eaten and asked if we could photograph it. They thought we were crazy, but agreed. Then we forgot to photograph anything else, so you get this post instead...

At 5:00 pm, our friend's band was playing a set at one of the venues, so we stopped to see them. They rocked, as usual. We were sitting at one of the sticky, beer-stained picnic tables and Sister pulled out her iPhone, you know, as you do. And noticed that the last Harry Potter was playing at 6:25 pm at a theater about 45 minutes away. That was enough to send us racing to the parking lot to continue ELISE'S DAY OFF EXTRAVAGANZA!

This time, the movie was ACTUALLY playing. We go there with about five minutes to spare. Sister still had a little bit of her candy in her giant bag, which she graciously shared with me. Neither of us needed the extra calories (Fair food smorgasbord, remember?), but we sure enjoyed it! And we enjoyed the movie, too! We're kind of book purists, so I wasn't sure it would ever live up to our imaginations, but it was worth the drive and $10, so take that as you will. I won't say anything else, for those of you waiting to rent it.

After the movie, we realized we were only about 20 minutes form the airport. No, we didn't hop a plane to an exotic location (I wish!). I only had ONE DAY off, remember? But the airport is the only place within 100 miles of our house that serves good frozen yogurt. It's not one of the name brands, but it's kind of like Pinkberry or Cherry on Top. And it's my favorite EVER! So Sister used more of her precious gas to drive us over there, completely the opposite direction from home. Because SHE'S THE BEST SISTER EVER! And we ate our weight in frozen yogurt. Which is exactly what we needed. Because we were starving.*

As if this was not already the perfect day (just to recap: no Jerk Boss or Vindictive Coworker, Sister all to myself, sleeping in, the Fair, lots of food, great band, Harry Potter, candy, and frozen yogurt), Sister detoured on the way home and stopped at BARNES & NOBLE! That's like my favorite store ever. A store full of brand new books and squashy armchairs? Where's bad? I bought two new books with a coupon from Sister and we finally headed home. It was the best end to Elise's Day Off Extravaganza.

You guys, I had no idea how badly I needed a good day. I mean, I've known for two months that I hate my job, that I'm bored and miserable and abused, that I need a change, and that I'm running out of steam. But until I combined all my favorite things on one day, I had no IDEA how long it had been since I had had a good day. Not a non-bad day, where nothing sucky happened. But an actual Good Day, defined by good things happening instead of by an absence of bad things happening. They were all pretty simple things. Okay, so kind of expensive by the end of the day, but still simple. But they reminded me how good my days CAN BE.

So, let's get down to business: the participation portion of this post (I try to pull you guys in when I can. Have you noticed?). I partly wrote this post to tell you all about my awesome day. Not to make you jealous or anything... Of course not... You know, to SHARE my JOY. Gosh. You doubt my motives? Anyway, I also wrote it to encourage you all to take a day for yourself every once in a while. Even if you're not in a bad situation like I am. Even if you think you're already having good days. Sometimes, being intentional about joy, about relationships, about goodness? Sometimes, it's good for the soul. And you doubted my motives... This was all for you! Well, most of it. Okay. A tiny bit of it... But still.

So tell me all about what makes you happy. What is a perfect day? Describe it to me. Have you had one recently? Tell me all about it. Need one as badly as I did? Dream some dreams in the comments. Make plans. Then go do it. You'll thank me later.

Just beware that taking a Thursday off before a three day weekend makes it REALLY hard to come back to work on Friday morning. Also, that much food may make you sick... Just a Fair warning (heh...).

*Please see this as the sarcasm intended and don't tell me about how the average American does not EVEN KNOW what "starvation" is, because... Hello? I was 300 lbs once. I understand that we/I have issues with food and that there are ACTUAL STARVING CHILDREN in the world. We're all clear on that, so don't go on a Social Justice rant in my comments. Mmmkay? Thanks.

The Agony We Choose

Hi everybody! Thank you for the kind words and helpful tactics (and horror stories) you all shared last week. Was it last week? Or the week before? Geez! I haven't posted in ages. I know. I'm suffering a considerable amount of guilt over it. This was my worst fear when starting a blog... That I would get a few months in and run out of steam. Out of interest. Out of things to say.

Except that I still have all KINDS of things to say. I just can't talk about them here. First, because of The Rules. And second, because of... The Uninteresting Whining. Because that is all it would be. Rage and whining and nothing worth reading. Aren't you glad I've stayed silent? And in case you're wondering, nothing has changed yet. But I'm choosing to rise above. Well, today, I am. Who knows about tomorrow...

I also kind of unplugged from all social media. I threw myself into this (blogging, tweeting, commenting, reading, participating) when I first started and I loved it. I met a lot of cool people, had some crazy-awesome Twitter conversations, and have made some genuine friends. And I still love it. But I haven't figured out the balance of it yet. Because as soon as I joined Twitter under this name, I stopped checking Facebook under my REAL name. Now, Facebook drives me crazier than almost anything, so this might be a good break, but I have to ask myself if all of this is worth it if it causes me to abandon my real-life relationships...

Plus, now that I follow more than twelve people on Twitter, it's hard to keep up with the stream. And you know how much I love to read things from the beginning and all the way through. But that is practically impossible! So last weekend, I kind of unplugged from everything and then never replugged.

But I miss my people. I miss the crazy tweets and the comments. And I miss expressing myself and having people respond. You know, the reasons I got into this in the first place. So I'm back and trying again.

Has anyone realized that this post has basically been about nothing so far? Well, we're going to change that right now. I'm going to ramble aimlessly, but it's going to be ABOUT something. About my plans for the evening. Hey! I'm easing back in. No judging.

Tonight, I am at Mom and Papa's house for dinner. Supposedly because Sister wants to watch the Cubs game with Mom. But mostly because Mom offered to cook. Which actually sounds like it's going to end up with Mom picking up pizza. Because it's Two for Tuesday at Papa Johns. I may have referred to this as Bad Decision Tuesday in the past. But that's only because I was alone with two extra large Hawaiian pizzas and Satan's Cat was powerless to stop the calories, not because this pizza is a bad decision. This pizza is the BEST DECISION EVER!

So we will eat pizza. And they will watch baseball. I will not be watching baseball. Because even though I was raised a Cubs fan (my parents grew up in Illinois), played t-ball as a child (read: picked clover in out in left field), and can talk about the game more knowledgeably than any other sport and most other hobbies (just don't get me started on horse racing), I pretty much HATE baseball.

Okay, that's not true. I just hate talking about baseball. I actually enjoy the game. I like watching it on TV. When I lived close to a city with a team, I liked going to live games. I liked watching my brother play for most of his childhood and adolescence (mostly I liked the ballpark junk food and playing with Barbies under the bleachers, that's pretty much the same). I like baseball. I just can't get worked up about it. I can't find any passion for it.

Sister, however, has. Located. The. Passion. She LIVES AND BREATHES baseball. Okay, maybe that's a little strong. But she has like seven apps on her iPhone to help her keep track of the Cubs and the NL Central, she reads at least three sports bloggers, and she watched or DVRs almost every game. And it makes her happy, so I don't complain. Much.

But I have personally given up on the Cubs. It's been 103 years, people. It's no longer optimistic. It's no longer hopeful. It's just plan masochistic. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Sister. But this is not really new information to either of you, am I right? I love you...

So while they enjoy the pain of the predictable ninth inning give-away, I'll be reading my book. A book that was foist upon me by a friend who claimed it was an amazing series and I HAD to read it. It's teen fantasy, which is not my normal cup of tea, but I'm pretty willing to try anything on the recommendation of a friend. And it's not THAT bad. Except that the main character found out (near the end of the first book) that her love interest is her brother. Which is weird and whatever, but I think we're all aware that this will turn out to be a lie or a red herring or something. EXCEPT THAT I'M FULLY INTO THE THIRD BOOK AND HE'S STILL HER BROTHER! AND THEY'RE STILL MAKING OUT OCCASIONALLY!!! But I cant stop reading now. Because I have to find out. If I leave now, it's like it's true and it will always be true. But if I keep reading, there's a chance it's not.

Well I guess we all find our own ways to punish ourselves, huh... So, in the grand tradition of blogging (starting discussions about things-that-no-one-ever-thinks-to-discuss-but-are-incredibly-important-to-discuss), tell me about the ways you've been punishing yourself recently. Er... Uh... Not that kind of self-punishment... Come on, people, you know what I mean! Right?

I Have Never Been Convicted of a Felony

You guys! YOU GUYS! I was just smacked in the face with inspiration. It has been so ridiculously long since I felt this way that I thought I’d share the excitement about the inspiration before I share the thing I was inspired to write. And now I’m hoping that saying all of that didn’t just jinx my post. Because I have four posts sitting in draft form, you know. The jinxing has been epic lately. So, to avoid more of it, I’m just going to dive in.

After Sister graduated college (and while I was still in college), she moved to another state and took a really great job. Or so she thought. Wait. Crap. I have to go ask Sister if I can talk about this. Because even though it’s kind of my story and definitely my inspiration, it includes details about her life. And because I’m a good sister, I’ll ask permission. Hang on.

Okay. She says to write it and let her review it before publishing. She promises to read it faster than the other post, which took her three days to read and she ended up saying not to publish it. Which was the best choice, but her track record does not give me much faith for this post… Except this one will be GOOD! You’ll see, Sister. YOU’LL ALL SEE!!!!

So, Sister was working at this seemingly awesome job. And actually, for the first few years, it WAS awesome. But it was the kind of job where you work on projects with a team and a boss and when the project is done, you get a NEW project and a NEW team and a NEW boss. So, it was a bit of a Wheel of Fortune kind of spin every time she got a new project. On the fourth boss, the wheel landed on IMPOSSIBLE JERK.

Sister worked for this boss for about a year, with the situation starting out bad and getting progressively worse with each month. The man was verbally abusive and impossible to please and ridiculously demanding and incompetent and rude and whole host of other negative adjectives. We shall call him Big Jerk Boss Man. Big Jerk Boss Man is rivaled only by Crazy Boss Lady. I bet if those two got together, they could spawn something resembling Satan.

Sister and I have been very close (ever since we stopped sharing a bedroom—good call, Mom), so when we lived in separate states, we talked on the phone every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. When she worked for Big Jerk Boss Man, she needed a pressure release valve and I fit the description well enough (funny how these themes repeat themselves in my life, huh?). So most evenings, during her hour-and-a-half commute home (usually leaving the office between 7:00 and 8:00 pm after having gotten there by 6:00 or 7:00 am), she would call me to yell or cry or rave or laugh or do anything that would help her slow the onset of The Crazy.

Somewhere along the line, I told her that I would not be surprised if we got a call from her company saying that they had found Big Jerk Boss Man dead, scotch-taped to his desk chair with a pair of scissors sticking out of his carotid artery and that they were pretty sure Sister had fled to sunny Mexico. Do you see this image? Because we really can’t move on until you see a middle-aged jerk strapped to a spinning and wheeled office chair with his head lolling back and to the side with a giant pair of scissors sticking garishly out of his neck causing a small trickle of blood that stains the collar of his oxford shirt and bolo tie. And you have to imagine a half-crazed, gleeful Sister bouncing excitedly on the rough fabric seat of a Mexico-bound Greyhound bus, clapping her hands AND feet like a small child and cackling defiantly. Got the image now? Good. We’ll move on.

“Scissors” became our secret catch phrase. All she had to do was say that single word and I knew how she was feeling. Then, since the horrors only got worse as the year drug on, “scissors” stopped being accurate enough. So we came up with a scale. It was kind of a “between 1 and 10” scale, but really more like “from Safety fiskars to Hedge Clippers” scale.

There evolved many jokes about her hopping on the bus to Mexico, commandeering it, and “swinging by” to pick me up. This was infinitely* hilarious, since there was no way in any kind of geographical logic that she could “swing by” a town severely north of her when she was headed south to Mexico. Sometimes, we left the scissors out of it and I would just ask, “Mexico?” The answer was ALWAYS yes.

For Christmas that year, I made her an escape kit. I bought a set of three nasty looking sewing scissors in progressively larger sizes—the largest one was so wicked looking, I was sure it would cause fatal damage if wielded irresponsibly (or with intent to maim). Then I fabricated two bus tickets to Mexico, but in a ridiculous way. I may have called it the “Off-White Canine Express” or something. [I  just looked it up in our e-mails and apparently I was feeling contrary that day, because I refer to it was the "Black Cat Express."] I do remember listing just “Mexico” as the destination city, with an intermediary stop in my incredibly-out-of-the-way town. Then I made her a fake ID. But because I didn’t want it to in any way look like I was actually trying to forge government documents, I used a picture of a giraffe and named her Beulah (I’m a RULE-FOLLOWER, remember? A line-toer. A law-abider. I only FANTASIZE about killing people with office supplies). Then I put it all in a box and labeled it “Use only in case of an emergency.”

She opened it the second I handed it to her.

Once, when I went to visit her (if I could find good airline deals, I visited for long weekends, holidays, and spring break), she had to go into work on a Saturday. Not like, “Hey, get your butt in here for a 10:00 am Saturday meeting in which we all work our tails off so corporate doesn’t close our branch…” or something. No. More like, “You should probably come in on weekends and work harder and longer than anyone else on the team because I hate you and oh hey you’ll be all alone in the office on the weekends, which will help your productivity, because the rest of us have lives and families and did I mention I hate you?” So she sat in her crackerjack sized office in the empty building and I wandered around trying to entertain myself quietly for a little while. I was mildly entertained when I went into his office and farted. Then I closed the door as I left and prayed it would stink until Monday. I’m pretty sure it didn’t even stink right then, but it’s really the thought that counts.

Eventually, she “escaped” that job and ended up moving home to…the town we’re now in (Whew! That was close. You totally just expected me to tell you where I live. Good thing I’m quick on my…er…fingers).  She moved home a few months after I had graduated and moved home, so when she bought her house at the end of that summer, it was only reasonable that I move in with her. Financially reasonable. Why? Were you thinking for an alibi? That’s silly. Just because I have a super top secret identity and won’t tell you where I live does not mean I am an accomplice to Murder with a Deadly Weapon (namely, a wicked pair of scissors). I live in FAR NORTH, remember? Nobody fled to Mexico. And that’s all I’m going to say about that (under advice of counsel).

The bottom line is: Sister and I have survived some crazy stuff. And we now have secret code words to express our frustration. When I started living with Crazy Boss Lady, all I had to say during our nightly phone calls was a nonchalant “scissors” and she understood. Which was good, because Crazy Boss Lady was listening at the door most nights, unbeknownst to me, and I think I would have gotten fired a whole lot earlier than I actually did if she had heard me making threats to her carotid artery. Hmmm… Maybe this was a miscalculation…

And now, every time I get on twitter and somebody is talking about getting stabbity-mad or about bludgeoning their coworkers with office supplies, I think back on those awful days and smile just a little. Because it’s always good to have a plan an outlet for your rage fantasies.

*Hilarious only to us probably. And occasionally to our mother. But mostly just to us. We’re happy to let you join us in the hilarity, though. 

[The author of the post does not endorse, encourage, advocate, and/or condone in any way the stabbing, maiming, dismembering, killing, and/or otherwise physically and/or psychologically damaging of one’s employer(s), coworker(s), and/or colleague(s) with scissors, Safety Fiskars, Hedge Clippers, and/or any other cutting instrument or office supply. Nor does she endorse, encourage, advocate, and/or condone in any way the forging, falsifying, and/or altering of any legal government documents.  She does, however, endorse, encourage, advocate, and condone the use of humor, witticism(s), fantasizing, and Twitter to express one’s discontent, rage, frustration, observances, musings, hatred, and/or other human emotion regarding one’s situation in life, employer(s), coworker(s), and/or colleague(s), family member(s), friend(s), and/or stranger(s). The author also wishes to convey that she did not receive any form of payment or sponsorship for the entirety, and/or any subsequent part, of this post and is kind of miffed about that, because this was pretty funny, if you ask her.]