I always thought that once a person was no longer tied to some sort of academic institution that the concept of "Christmas Vacation" would fly right out the window. At that point in life, there are no more socially mandated days (or weeks) off from your every day responsibilities. Now, you'd be lucky to get one paid day off if you worked for the right organization. Never again would the final days of class drag by as you awaited the fateful final bell before winter break. Never again would delicious treats grace your workspace to begin the sugar induced coma that you would enjoy for the entire vacation. I thought that all of these things were over once I entered the adult (read: lame) world and held a real job and had to be a grown up.
Recently however, I have discovered that I was mistaken. The anticipation and frustration with the slow moving clock during the days before Christmas are alive and well in my world. Although I may not be looking forward to nearly a month of zero-responsibilities (ah... how I miss college...), I am able to look forward to 5.5 days of zero-responsibilities, and these days, that is definitely a lot. I find myself having a hard time concentrating on the tasks at hand because I'm too busy thinking about the cookies I get to bake, the tree I get to decorate (because Mom and Dad have "conveniently" decided to let me do it once I arrive -- which I don't mind at all, but I still find kind of funny), the movies I get to watch (24 hours straight of "A Christmas Story" anyone??), and the time I get to spend with my awesome parents who I generally don't get to hang out with nearly enough.
As a sixth grader, most of the anticipation of the winter break came from the hordes of presents that awaited me (MUST HAVE BARBIES), but now the currency of choice is simply relaxation time. Maybe that means I'm a grown-up now (how did that happen??), but I don't care. I'm still sitting here, eating candy canes, anxiously awaiting the moment when I can forget every-day things like work and bills and shoveling snow, and can jump on that plane to Nashville. In the meantime, I'll continue pretending to care about things like summary judgment and DUI's and restitution. Sigh. Is it tomorrow yet?
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Nostrils DO serve a purpose.
I have a cold. Not the world's most earth shattering news, and certainly not the first cold I've had, but crap-tastic nonetheless. But I have discovered that there are four stages of having a cold that I inevitably go through over the course of its virulent effects.
First, there is denial. "No, this naggy sore throat is nothing, I'm not getting sick!". "I'm only coughing because I have a tickle in my throat... the cat slept on my head last night and its just remnant cat hair in my lungs, I'm not getting sick!". "My nose is only runny because it's cold outside, I'm not getting sick!". During this phase I will proceed about my day as if nothing is wrong. Would I ordinarily take the garbage out without a coat on when it is 5 degrees outside? Yes! Therefore I can do it now too! I am invincible!!
Second, there is realization. This usually happens the morning after the second day of denial when you wake up with cement in your head and a pile of Kleenexes on the table next to your bed. "I CAN'T BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE. I might be getting sick". "I can only breathe through my right nostril... I might be getting sick". "Now I can only breathe through my left nostril... I might be getting sick". The moment of joy that you experience during this phase when one nostril clears is immediately dampened when your realize that your other previously-operational nostril is now closed for business. I was created with two nostrils for a reason. It is unacceptable when one or both of them are not fully-functional.
Third, there is anger. "Why am I sick?? What germ infested plague-ridden surface did I come into contact with that infected me with horse flu (or whatever is this year's version of animal-origin death)??". "I used my mango and orange flavored hand sanitizer religiously, how could this happen!" "This is a travesty!". "I don't have time to be sick! I have a bazillion and ten things to accomplish this week and laying in bed draining snot is not one of them!!".
Finally, there is acceptance. In this stage, you consider what it is worth to go into work, and then (if you're me), the guilt of taking a sick day overcomes the desire to lay on the couch with a blanket and a movie and you go in anyway, armed with Dayquil, Kleenex and cough drops. At this moment you strongly consider purchasing stock in the Kleenex Corporation. However, the blessed angel robed in red that is always at your side during these bouts with viral plague will save you from your suffering come bedtime. She is called "Nyquil" and she makes all the bad-ness disappear... Behold:
Can you hear the angels singing and the heavens rejoicing?? Because I sure can. Isn't she glorious? However, Nyquil can be a tricky mistress and you must be sure to select the lovely cherry flavored bottle lest you grab the horrible green bottle. The green version of Nyquil can only be described as Hiroshima in a bottle. I would gladly suffer the perils of my cold than drink that verdigris tinted toxin.
I am currently in the acceptance phase of this cold and will therefore partake of the lovely Red-lady's potion later tonight. In the meantime, her not-as-awesome-but-still-kinda-awesome orange cousin's elixir will suffice (Dayquil). Pass the Kleenex.
First, there is denial. "No, this naggy sore throat is nothing, I'm not getting sick!". "I'm only coughing because I have a tickle in my throat... the cat slept on my head last night and its just remnant cat hair in my lungs, I'm not getting sick!". "My nose is only runny because it's cold outside, I'm not getting sick!". During this phase I will proceed about my day as if nothing is wrong. Would I ordinarily take the garbage out without a coat on when it is 5 degrees outside? Yes! Therefore I can do it now too! I am invincible!!
Second, there is realization. This usually happens the morning after the second day of denial when you wake up with cement in your head and a pile of Kleenexes on the table next to your bed. "I CAN'T BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE. I might be getting sick". "I can only breathe through my right nostril... I might be getting sick". "Now I can only breathe through my left nostril... I might be getting sick". The moment of joy that you experience during this phase when one nostril clears is immediately dampened when your realize that your other previously-operational nostril is now closed for business. I was created with two nostrils for a reason. It is unacceptable when one or both of them are not fully-functional.
Third, there is anger. "Why am I sick?? What germ infested plague-ridden surface did I come into contact with that infected me with horse flu (or whatever is this year's version of animal-origin death)??". "I used my mango and orange flavored hand sanitizer religiously, how could this happen!" "This is a travesty!". "I don't have time to be sick! I have a bazillion and ten things to accomplish this week and laying in bed draining snot is not one of them!!".
Finally, there is acceptance. In this stage, you consider what it is worth to go into work, and then (if you're me), the guilt of taking a sick day overcomes the desire to lay on the couch with a blanket and a movie and you go in anyway, armed with Dayquil, Kleenex and cough drops. At this moment you strongly consider purchasing stock in the Kleenex Corporation. However, the blessed angel robed in red that is always at your side during these bouts with viral plague will save you from your suffering come bedtime. She is called "Nyquil" and she makes all the bad-ness disappear... Behold:
I am currently in the acceptance phase of this cold and will therefore partake of the lovely Red-lady's potion later tonight. In the meantime, her not-as-awesome-but-still-kinda-awesome orange cousin's elixir will suffice (Dayquil). Pass the Kleenex.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Merry Freaking-Rural Christmas...
I moved from the relative hustle and bustle of the Twin Cities to the conversely rural town of Morris exactly two years, three months, and 8 days ago. It is no secret that I am not a country girl, and I have come to terms with that over the past two years. However, when I first made my transition to the sticks, it wasn't as apparent to me just how out of place I really was. As a disclaimer to all of my Morris friends, who have made living out here exceptionally more enjoyable than I ever thought possible, I still have to say that given my option, the Twin Cities will always win out over Morris as the superior place to reside... but you all already knew that... and you forgive me for it anyway. Thus the tone has been set for the remainder of this post.
In November of 2008, I was facing my first winter and my first holiday season in Morris. I was asked by a friend if I would like to attend the annual Morris holiday parade with her. I was told that there would be floats be-decked in full, lighted holiday glory, so naturally, being the ostrich that I am, my letch for shiny objects won out and I agreed to attend. Having lived in the Twin Cities for several years, when I am informed of a Holiday Parade that involves lights, I immediately think of, and expect, a show worthy of calling itself the Holidazzle Parade. Huge floats bejeweled with thousands of shiny Christmas lights, Christmas music blaring from each one, and even SANTA CLAUS!! Oh be still my beating heart. With those images pulsing through my mind, I prepared for the Morris version that freezing cold November evening, thoroughly expecting a smaller scale, but not at all prepared for what I got.
As I stood there on the curb, freezing and wearing my winter coat, mittens, hat, scarf and wrapped in the comforter from my bed, I saw the first parade entrants begin their trek down Main Street. What was that coming down the street?? Wait, really? No, it can't be... IT WAS. A TRACTOR with strings of Christmas lights draped over it, powered by a portable generator. NO WAY. I was unable to process this for a good 30 seconds. All of my lofty expectations had been blown to pieces by that tractor. I truly was living in the country now. Dear lord, a tractor?! The tractor was eventually followed by a SNOW PLOW similarly decked out in strings of Christmas lights, among other various trucks with trailers decorated for the occasion. For this, I was not prepared.
I'll be honest. I remember calling a friend from back in civilization and regaling her with the story of the parade. Needless to say I have never heard her laugh harder at my misery (you know who you are, Ninnymuggins). I was truly in shock over just how different my new surroundings were from anything I had experienced in the past. How was it possible that I had warped into this alternate universe where most stores are not open on Sundays, rent was nearly half what I was used to paying, gravel roads exist, and Target is a far away oasis??? And so I wallowed in self-pity because clearly this was not civilization. A life with no Target is no life at all.
That realization of what my surroundings had become was my low point. I have since come to terms with, and accepted my fate as a current rural Minnesota resident. Although I whine, kick and scream about not living in a place with a collective population of more than 6,000, it really isn't all bad. I returned to the fateful holiday parade the following year, and again this year, just a couple of weeks ago. I realized that despite the less than splendorous displays, the floats are actually "kinda cute". You can get frozen candy and Dairy Queen coupons if you play your cards right and wave at the right parade marchers. And of course, Santa made his appearance all the way out here in Morris as well. Despite it being insanely cold...
I've still had fun each year attending the parade. So I figure, as long as I am stuck living in the sticks, I can at least make the best of it. Oooh and aaaah over the snowplow, hang out with the friends I've made, and enjoy my frozen candy. Here are a few pictures from the 2010 parade... some of them aren't very good because it was freezing, my camera hates the cold as much as I do, and shivering does not lead to clear photos. Enjoy!
In November of 2008, I was facing my first winter and my first holiday season in Morris. I was asked by a friend if I would like to attend the annual Morris holiday parade with her. I was told that there would be floats be-decked in full, lighted holiday glory, so naturally, being the ostrich that I am, my letch for shiny objects won out and I agreed to attend. Having lived in the Twin Cities for several years, when I am informed of a Holiday Parade that involves lights, I immediately think of, and expect, a show worthy of calling itself the Holidazzle Parade. Huge floats bejeweled with thousands of shiny Christmas lights, Christmas music blaring from each one, and even SANTA CLAUS!! Oh be still my beating heart. With those images pulsing through my mind, I prepared for the Morris version that freezing cold November evening, thoroughly expecting a smaller scale, but not at all prepared for what I got.
As I stood there on the curb, freezing and wearing my winter coat, mittens, hat, scarf and wrapped in the comforter from my bed, I saw the first parade entrants begin their trek down Main Street. What was that coming down the street?? Wait, really? No, it can't be... IT WAS. A TRACTOR with strings of Christmas lights draped over it, powered by a portable generator. NO WAY. I was unable to process this for a good 30 seconds. All of my lofty expectations had been blown to pieces by that tractor. I truly was living in the country now. Dear lord, a tractor?! The tractor was eventually followed by a SNOW PLOW similarly decked out in strings of Christmas lights, among other various trucks with trailers decorated for the occasion. For this, I was not prepared.
I'll be honest. I remember calling a friend from back in civilization and regaling her with the story of the parade. Needless to say I have never heard her laugh harder at my misery (you know who you are, Ninnymuggins). I was truly in shock over just how different my new surroundings were from anything I had experienced in the past. How was it possible that I had warped into this alternate universe where most stores are not open on Sundays, rent was nearly half what I was used to paying, gravel roads exist, and Target is a far away oasis??? And so I wallowed in self-pity because clearly this was not civilization. A life with no Target is no life at all.
That realization of what my surroundings had become was my low point. I have since come to terms with, and accepted my fate as a current rural Minnesota resident. Although I whine, kick and scream about not living in a place with a collective population of more than 6,000, it really isn't all bad. I returned to the fateful holiday parade the following year, and again this year, just a couple of weeks ago. I realized that despite the less than splendorous displays, the floats are actually "kinda cute". You can get frozen candy and Dairy Queen coupons if you play your cards right and wave at the right parade marchers. And of course, Santa made his appearance all the way out here in Morris as well. Despite it being insanely cold...
I've still had fun each year attending the parade. So I figure, as long as I am stuck living in the sticks, I can at least make the best of it. Oooh and aaaah over the snowplow, hang out with the friends I've made, and enjoy my frozen candy. Here are a few pictures from the 2010 parade... some of them aren't very good because it was freezing, my camera hates the cold as much as I do, and shivering does not lead to clear photos. Enjoy!
The infamous snow plow with icicle lights on it... har har har...
Snow plow again.
And of course the FFA rolling up in their grain bin trailer thingy...
Friday, November 19, 2010
Evil Cosmetics and the Condiments that Vanquish Them
Being the well-prepared individual that I am, I recently purchased a new tube of mascara because my old one was running low and I wanted to be prepared for the day I needed a new one. I ventured out the 44.8 miles to Alexandria where the holy Wal-Mart lies. I have been a loyal Target shopper for as long as I can remember, but I'll admit I have been unfaithful to my beloved Target and have been frequenting Wal-Mart lately due to the slightly lower prices (however I do sacrifice competent employees and hygienic clientele for my quest to save a few pennies). Nonetheless. I found myself at Wal-Mart, amidst the cretins, trying to find the things on my list, purchase them, and remove myself from the store as soon as humanly possible.
There I was in the cosmetics aisle, looking for the familiar orange tube of eyelash goop that I apply to my lashes every morning in order to look lovely, like this:
Here is a picture of the evil impostor product that I accidentally grabbed instead:
Well played, Cover-girl. Well played. You managed to trick me, a poor unsuspecting consumer, into purchasing WATERPROOF eyelash goop, rather than the lovely normal eyelash goop. I did not discover this deceitful marketing ploy until after I had had the offensive product in my cupboard for several weeks, had opened the package, and had applied it to my lashes.
Admittedly, I am a bit of a messy eyelash goop applicator. It is virtually impossible for me to get through a morning without black smudges everywhere. This is where the beauty of NORMAL eyelash goop truly shines. I can simply use a Q-tip and a drop of water to erase any smudginess that occurs and create the flawless and perfect lashes you see above*.
There I was in the cosmetics aisle, looking for the familiar orange tube of eyelash goop that I apply to my lashes every morning in order to look lovely, like this:
Way creepy picture, right? Well never mind, I'm illustrating a point here. Anyway, I was perusing the makeup section in order to find my eyelash goop so that I could get the rest of the things on my list and get out of there as expeditiously as possible before I ended up on peopleofwalmart.com or something... I found the familiar orange tube, grabbed one off the peg, placed it in my basket, and moved on feeling satisfied that my mission for eyelash goo had been completed. Oh how I was terribly wrong. This is a picture of the lovely product that I use every morning to become beautified:
Here is a picture of the evil impostor product that I accidentally grabbed instead:
Well played, Cover-girl. Well played. You managed to trick me, a poor unsuspecting consumer, into purchasing WATERPROOF eyelash goop, rather than the lovely normal eyelash goop. I did not discover this deceitful marketing ploy until after I had had the offensive product in my cupboard for several weeks, had opened the package, and had applied it to my lashes.
Admittedly, I am a bit of a messy eyelash goop applicator. It is virtually impossible for me to get through a morning without black smudges everywhere. This is where the beauty of NORMAL eyelash goop truly shines. I can simply use a Q-tip and a drop of water to erase any smudginess that occurs and create the flawless and perfect lashes you see above*.
* Of course by "flawless" and "perfect" I mean "mediocre and not frightening".
So on the fateful morning in question, I go to erase my errors with the tried and true Q-tip/water method and IT DIDN'T WORK. What folly was this? Why were my methods failing me at 7:32 a.m.? I grabbed the tube and looked closely at its deceitful camouflage. And then I saw it. The most evil words in the cosmetic language. WATERPROOF. Sigh. I had been foiled. Waterproof mascara should be reserved for, and sold only to, Olympic synchronized swimmers and particularly misty eyed brides. That is it. It should not be placed near the regular stuff where it quite certainly will confuse and irritate regular consumers.
In an attempt to see the proverbial "silver lining", I figured I would persevere and use up the loathsome product in order to save another $8.99 (and my dignity). I wore the hydrophobic cosmetic all day and had nearly forgotten about its presence on my eyelids... that is until it came time to wash my face that evening.
Again, let me remind you of yet another reason why normal mascara is superior to waterproof mascara. BECAUSE IT COMES OFF WITH WATER. As I was scrubbing my face that night, I suddenly got the sinking feeling that this crap was not coming off. Not at all. It was like someone had rubbed sooty candle wax and chewing gum together then wiped it on my eyelashes. This is not OK. I continued to scrub, but to no avail. Worried that I might scrub my eyelashes right off, I consulted Google, the oracle of all of life's answers, searching for a solution to my problem.
Google informed me that a person such as myself, with no makeup remover in her home, and only water and face wash to arm myself with, must consult the kitchen for a more effective weapon to vanquish the vile waterproof cosmetic product. My salvation lay in olive oil. OLIVE OIL.
I will give you a moment to digest the ramifications of this.
...
...
...
Yeah. Exactly what I thought. However, desperate as I was to remove the stubborn goo from my eyes, I was willing to try anything. Google instructed me to soak a cotton ball in the olive oil and place it on my eyelid for at least 30 seconds in order to begin dissolving the mascara. As I was doing this, I couldn't help but imagine the scene from the Wizard of Oz where the witch was melting because Dorothy threw a pail of water on her (incidentally my favorite movie of all time). It occurred to me that waterproof mascara must be even more evil than the Wicked Witch of the West because water could destroy her, but it proved no match for the mascara. Innnnteresting...
Eventually the olive oil persevered and the evil mascara finally came off. I will be giving the offensive product to a friend of mine who (for whatever reason) is fond of it's hydrophobic ways. I, on the other hand, will be purchasing a new tube of regular, normal, water-soluble eyelash goo. So much for saving $8.99, but there are just some things in this world that cannot be tolerated.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Moosing Season is Upon Us.
For those of you that know me, you may have heard talk about the "Moose" around Christmas time. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this, let me give you a visual. This is Mr. Moose:
Mr. Moose has a long and illustrious history with my mother and I. He first came into our lives as a useless piece of dollar store garbage my Mom had gotten from likely a Secret Santa game or some other similar nonsense. At this point, I was probably in middle school. Clearly, this silly Christmas trinket was not of any value to my mother, which led to him being placed in my room. You see, my Mom had a strange habit of putting things in my room that she didn't want. Socks, playbills, crafty gifts, etc. The Moose was no exception.
Being the defiant adolescent that I was (OK, I was never defiant, but I was willing to fight back), I put the Moose back in her room. Unknown to me at the time, this was the fateful action that set the years long Moose war into action -- a war that still rages on today with no discernible end in sight. Not to be outdone, my mother then HID the Moose in my room. Naturally, I had to retaliate, so I hid the Moose in HER room. A vicious cycle had begun and neither of us were willing to concede defeat. The war must continue.
Fast forward to Christmas Eve. My Mom, Dad and I always opened our gifts to each other on Christmas Eve (and the gifts from "Santa" because my Mother, to this day, has not admitted that St. Nick is a figment of our imagination, and she still signs gifts "from Santa" and from all the reindeer). There was a small package under the tree with my name on it. I tore into it with gusto, only to discover... THE MOOSE. All nicely wrapped up and apparently sent just for me from the North Pole from "Santa". Yeah. Like Santa would have the audacity to ally himself with my mother. This was getting out of hand.
From that moment on, I vowed to do all in my power to one-up my scheming mother the following year... and every year after that. Over the years, there have been some pretty elaborate pranks involving her boss, the safe at my job, my college professors, her co-workers, wait-staff, my roommates, ransom notes, breaking and entering, misuse of judicial power, misuse of dating web-sites, and countless other moose-related shenanigans. What is funny though is that Christmas will never be complete again without the stupid dollar store moose. Because he has become so precious to us, we have established some rules that MUST always be followed.
1. The Moose cannot travel via the U.S. Postal Service, lest he get lost or broken. This rule has, however, been BROKEN by my mother, which I believe should entitle me to initial custody this year.
2. The Moose may only be used for harassment, vilifying, embarrassment, or other activities between the dates of Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day. This is a mere 8 days away. *Insert evil laughter here* Plotting and scheming has already commenced.
3. Other than rules 1 and 2, there are no other rules. And no, this is not like Fight Club. We can talk about Moosing.
As such, Moosing season is nearly upon us and I must prepare. Never again will I be surprised with the Moose on the judge's bench in the courtroom, or on my professor's podium in a lecture hall, or WANTED posters littering my college campus. This year I shall reign triumphant in the Moose war! I will prevail in the Moose prank-ery and wear the title of "Superior Moose-er" for the whole of 2011! Look out, Mother!! The Moose is coming for you!
Here is a look at my (awesome) mother and I :) Love you!
Being the defiant adolescent that I was (OK, I was never defiant, but I was willing to fight back), I put the Moose back in her room. Unknown to me at the time, this was the fateful action that set the years long Moose war into action -- a war that still rages on today with no discernible end in sight. Not to be outdone, my mother then HID the Moose in my room. Naturally, I had to retaliate, so I hid the Moose in HER room. A vicious cycle had begun and neither of us were willing to concede defeat. The war must continue.
Fast forward to Christmas Eve. My Mom, Dad and I always opened our gifts to each other on Christmas Eve (and the gifts from "Santa" because my Mother, to this day, has not admitted that St. Nick is a figment of our imagination, and she still signs gifts "from Santa" and from all the reindeer). There was a small package under the tree with my name on it. I tore into it with gusto, only to discover... THE MOOSE. All nicely wrapped up and apparently sent just for me from the North Pole from "Santa". Yeah. Like Santa would have the audacity to ally himself with my mother. This was getting out of hand.
From that moment on, I vowed to do all in my power to one-up my scheming mother the following year... and every year after that. Over the years, there have been some pretty elaborate pranks involving her boss, the safe at my job, my college professors, her co-workers, wait-staff, my roommates, ransom notes, breaking and entering, misuse of judicial power, misuse of dating web-sites, and countless other moose-related shenanigans. What is funny though is that Christmas will never be complete again without the stupid dollar store moose. Because he has become so precious to us, we have established some rules that MUST always be followed.
1. The Moose cannot travel via the U.S. Postal Service, lest he get lost or broken. This rule has, however, been BROKEN by my mother, which I believe should entitle me to initial custody this year.
2. The Moose may only be used for harassment, vilifying, embarrassment, or other activities between the dates of Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day. This is a mere 8 days away. *Insert evil laughter here* Plotting and scheming has already commenced.
3. Other than rules 1 and 2, there are no other rules. And no, this is not like Fight Club. We can talk about Moosing.
As such, Moosing season is nearly upon us and I must prepare. Never again will I be surprised with the Moose on the judge's bench in the courtroom, or on my professor's podium in a lecture hall, or WANTED posters littering my college campus. This year I shall reign triumphant in the Moose war! I will prevail in the Moose prank-ery and wear the title of "Superior Moose-er" for the whole of 2011! Look out, Mother!! The Moose is coming for you!
Here is a look at my (awesome) mother and I :) Love you!
Ketchup bombs.
It occurred to me that reading blogs is most certainly one of my major self-indulgences during the day. I generally gravitate to those that are either amusing or are written by someone I know, or both. So I figured hey, I could try my hand at this. So here we go!
I'm pretty sure that my musings on life and the things that go on around me aren't going to change the world by being posted on the Internet, but at least it'll entertain me for a while and perhaps those who read this. Being a self-proclaimed "city-girl" who just happened to wind up in rural Minnesota by chance (and because of the right job) has turned me into a bit of the proverbial square peg, but I do my best. My adventures out here never cease to amuse those I tell them to, so now I am going to share them with the world as well.
For today's topic, I will focus on ketchup. Yes, ketchup. I did a very unusual thing today and went to McDonald's for lunch. I did this for several reasons. First, I was bored with the chicken and dumplings leftovers I had in my fridge, second, I had a hankering for chicken tenders, and third, I was being just plain lazy. I ordered "chicken selects" and fries, with a side of ranch dressing for dipping (my adorable god-daughter has re-introduced me to the joys of "dip"). Chicken nuggets just wouldn't do because of the awful and frightening recent news photos of what chicken nuggets are actually made of...
I admit, the selects are probably not much better, but that image has been haunting me and I couldn't order them. The selects at least do a better job of masquerading as CHICKEN, so I made my choice accordingly. Moving on. The very nice McDonald's order-taker/college student very thoughtfully asked if I would like them to provide me with some ketchup for my fries. A request that I have never gotten before, but was very pleased to have been given, so naturally I told the speaker-box that yes, indeed I would like some ketchup! Unbeknownst to me, the request would literally blow up in my face less than 15 minutes later. You see, I am convinced the tiny packets of ketchup provided to poor, unsuspecting consumers are made with the sole intention of causing massive havoc in the lives of the user. These are not "user-friendly" inventions and should be shunned until a more acceptable form of drive-thru window condiment dispensary can be created.
I brought my chicken tenders and fries home to eat while watching Rachael Ray and Ina Garten on Food Network (a lunch hour ritual of mine). I was generally enjoying my lunch of unhealthy greasy "chicken" and fries with my ranch dressing. Ranch is by far a superior condiment to ketchup. It just is. Take my word for it. As such, I was using the precious ranch dressing, hoping it would last through all three chicken tenders and all of my fries. Sadly, it didn't. I made it through the chicken and about half of the fries with the ranch and then had to switch to the ketchup I so conveniently had thanks to the McDonald's drive-thru gentleman. PERFECT! 2 tiny packets of ketchup will surely be sufficient for me to enjoy the remainder of my french fries with lovely "dipping" pleasure. The first packet opened just fine and the contents were easily dispensed into the empty ranch cup (because "remainder ranch" and ketchup sounded like a fabulous combination). But one packet just would not suffice. I required both to ensure a proper french fry to ketchup ratio. So I opened the second fateful packet.
Apparently my skills were used up on the first packet because this one opened with only the tiniest gap through which the ketchup had to travel in order to get to the outside. Being an impatient consumer of french-fries, rather than tear the evil packet again to provide a sufficient orifice through which the ketchup could travel, I instead just squeezed the packet harder to make the ketchup come out faster. Now, hindsight is 20/20, and looking back now I realize that this was probably not the best course of action, but alas, here is what ensued. The ketchup bomb ticked it's last tock and proceeded to EXPLODE. Thank goodness ketchup bombs are not very big because I only got ketchup shrapnel on my hands... or so I thought. I washed my hands, finished my lunch, and went back to work.
Nearly two hours later, after having been to the coffee shop, talking to co-workers and walking through a slew of construction people in the hallway, I discovered the cruelest trick of the ketchup bomb: the-sneaky-flying-shrapnel-that-lands-on-your-left-cheek-and-under-your-chin-but-doesn't-alert-you-of-its-evil-presence. I had been walking around all afternoon with ketchup on my face?? What am I? A third-grader who got over-zealous with the tater tots?
So lesson learned. When the McDonald's people attempt to do you a favor by offering ketchup packets (now known as ketchup bombs), JUST SAY NO. Ketchup terrorism cannot be tolerated in modern society. Consider yourself warned.
I'm pretty sure that my musings on life and the things that go on around me aren't going to change the world by being posted on the Internet, but at least it'll entertain me for a while and perhaps those who read this. Being a self-proclaimed "city-girl" who just happened to wind up in rural Minnesota by chance (and because of the right job) has turned me into a bit of the proverbial square peg, but I do my best. My adventures out here never cease to amuse those I tell them to, so now I am going to share them with the world as well.
For today's topic, I will focus on ketchup. Yes, ketchup. I did a very unusual thing today and went to McDonald's for lunch. I did this for several reasons. First, I was bored with the chicken and dumplings leftovers I had in my fridge, second, I had a hankering for chicken tenders, and third, I was being just plain lazy. I ordered "chicken selects" and fries, with a side of ranch dressing for dipping (my adorable god-daughter has re-introduced me to the joys of "dip"). Chicken nuggets just wouldn't do because of the awful and frightening recent news photos of what chicken nuggets are actually made of...
I brought my chicken tenders and fries home to eat while watching Rachael Ray and Ina Garten on Food Network (a lunch hour ritual of mine). I was generally enjoying my lunch of unhealthy greasy "chicken" and fries with my ranch dressing. Ranch is by far a superior condiment to ketchup. It just is. Take my word for it. As such, I was using the precious ranch dressing, hoping it would last through all three chicken tenders and all of my fries. Sadly, it didn't. I made it through the chicken and about half of the fries with the ranch and then had to switch to the ketchup I so conveniently had thanks to the McDonald's drive-thru gentleman. PERFECT! 2 tiny packets of ketchup will surely be sufficient for me to enjoy the remainder of my french fries with lovely "dipping" pleasure. The first packet opened just fine and the contents were easily dispensed into the empty ranch cup (because "remainder ranch" and ketchup sounded like a fabulous combination). But one packet just would not suffice. I required both to ensure a proper french fry to ketchup ratio. So I opened the second fateful packet.
Apparently my skills were used up on the first packet because this one opened with only the tiniest gap through which the ketchup had to travel in order to get to the outside. Being an impatient consumer of french-fries, rather than tear the evil packet again to provide a sufficient orifice through which the ketchup could travel, I instead just squeezed the packet harder to make the ketchup come out faster. Now, hindsight is 20/20, and looking back now I realize that this was probably not the best course of action, but alas, here is what ensued. The ketchup bomb ticked it's last tock and proceeded to EXPLODE. Thank goodness ketchup bombs are not very big because I only got ketchup shrapnel on my hands... or so I thought. I washed my hands, finished my lunch, and went back to work.
Nearly two hours later, after having been to the coffee shop, talking to co-workers and walking through a slew of construction people in the hallway, I discovered the cruelest trick of the ketchup bomb: the-sneaky-flying-shrapnel-that-lands-on-your-left-cheek-and-under-your-chin-but-doesn't-alert-you-of-its-evil-presence. I had been walking around all afternoon with ketchup on my face?? What am I? A third-grader who got over-zealous with the tater tots?
So lesson learned. When the McDonald's people attempt to do you a favor by offering ketchup packets (now known as ketchup bombs), JUST SAY NO. Ketchup terrorism cannot be tolerated in modern society. Consider yourself warned.
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