tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32094624037314398662024-03-19T04:19:16.769-05:00The Legal PeacockDo sequins have to happen for a reason?Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-48552483995163820062012-06-28T23:31:00.004-05:002012-06-28T23:31:56.593-05:00I Can't Believe I'm Admitting This... So, as many of you know, I spent about 2.5 years living in a
little town in western Minnesota while working as a law clerk for the
two coolest judges imaginable. Being the self-proclaimed city girl that
I am, I spent a good chunk of that time irritated and uncomfortable
because rural life just doesn't work for me. I need a Target within a
10 mile radius. I need there to be more than 2 stop-lights in my town.
I need to go to the grocery store and not run into 3 people that I
know. Driving to Alexandria from Morris just to shop is unacceptable. I
escaped nearly every weekend to the Twin Cities, and I couldn't wait to
escape the small-town feel of it all. Then finally, the day came when I
was offered a job back in the metropolitan mecca I'd been lusting after
for nearly three years. I moved back to St. Paul, and thought I'd
never look back. Until today.<br />
<br />
Last night I had a
very vivid dream that I moved back to Morris. To my old apartment. And
I was ECSTATIC about it. I remember thinking the move was so easy
because I knew exactly where to put all my furniture. I even remember
planning out how I was going to surprise my Morris friends with the news
that I had returned. What. The. Fork. This is not me.<br />
<br />
<br />
My apartment in Morris was certainly not the newest
or most desirable living situation, but I made the place my own, and
actually grew to like my surroundings (despite my creepy neighbor...).
It was quiet and it was cute, and I was actually proud of the home I'd
made there. I had some great times in that apartment, and met some of
my closest friends there. Its no wonder that now I dream about it and
remember it with happy memories. So, as evidenced by this blog post, my
dream got me to thinking today. And thinking led to realization. I
realized that I actually *gasp* LIKED living in Morris. And that I
actually *DOUBLE GASP* miss it. Yeah. You read that correctly.<br />
<br />
Now I'm not saying that I am going to run out and move back. I have a
great living situation right now with an awesome roommate, and I have a
new job that I like, and I am working toward a(nother) graduate degree,
so things are going pretty well right now. But I just can't help but
wonder what it would have been like had I stayed... It was chatting
with a good Morris friend this evening that kind-of brought out this
nostalgic moment. To my ladies from Morris, I just want you to know
that I love you all, and you made my time living in your town more
amazing than I ever could have expected. I really want to make it a
point to come back and visit a bit more often, and partake in the exotic
wonders that are rural Minnesota life... freezing cold holiday parades,
bar hopping in Lisa's camper, wrangling feral cats, duck farts, kissing
random Coborn's cashiers (You know who you are, M), and having sidewalk
parties in front of my apartment at 3am. <br />
<br />
So really, this little epiphany has made me learn something about
myself. I've realized that I tend to yearn for the future, and don't
focus on the awesome things I have in front of me right now. Had I
changed this attitude during my time in Morris, I could have saved
myself so much frustration. I had it good there. I had a good job,
amazing friends, and I earned quite a few ridiculous stories along the
way. So here's to focusing on the present, and learning to enjoy what
I've got. And to all you Morris-ites out there, I miss you and we need
to plan a Morris-extravaganza soon.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnsPTKDq2QVO3oTkCuKftrl53Lu8SBTKefOgGg4HgUK6mHy-64S3Lcw4vmv_vvrtfxsLBmJ3DCeGhDTeB-3Z8EeHha_3icqR0lFqZuBBVJALpP7ij85RYf69haeq81M8hjlT2Bxq1YBZz/s1600/Alberta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnsPTKDq2QVO3oTkCuKftrl53Lu8SBTKefOgGg4HgUK6mHy-64S3Lcw4vmv_vvrtfxsLBmJ3DCeGhDTeB-3Z8EeHha_3icqR0lFqZuBBVJALpP7ij85RYf69haeq81M8hjlT2Bxq1YBZz/s320/Alberta.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-90797851073820053432012-06-13T23:53:00.000-05:002012-06-13T23:53:37.675-05:00I am not dead yet...Holy absence, Batman. Yes, I realize I haven't posted since freaking JANUARY. But full-time work + crazy idea to go to grad school in my "spare time" kind of monopolizes my attention... Anywho, I am still alive, and I am going to try (try =/= promise) to do a bit more posting here. So the topic of today is... drum roll please...customer service.<br />
<br />
Tonight, I went to an eating establishment that serves primarily pasta dishes in a fast-food manner (I'll let you come to your own conclusions regarding what that establishment is). I ordered a lovely pesto dish with grilled chicken on top (to-go). I was handed my much-anticipated dinner in a brown paper bag, but something -- call it a sixth sense -- told me to double check my bag to ensure that the establishment's fine staff properly fulfilled my order. Much to my chagrin, as I opened the nice warm bag and peeked inside, my dinner was sadly poultry free.<br />
<br />
Not to be foiled by the lack of fowl in my pasta, I marched back up to the counter with the intention of politely pointing out the mistake and asking for my <i>damn chicken. </i> So there I stood. And waited. And waited. And WAITED. NO ONE behind that counter was willing to make eye-contact with me. Even the malnourished 16 year old Bieber-haircut ignored my scathing gaze as he walked right past me. Not any acknowledgment from anyone of my presence. Really?? <br />
<br />
FINALLY, the girl who took my initial order (not 5 minutes earlier) deigned to look at me and inquire about my prolonged presence. "This was supposed to have chicken", I said. And with a completely blank stare she asks, "grilled or crusted?". YOU TOOK MY ORDER 5 MINUTES AGO. This isn't rocket science. Sigh. I don't expect the fast-food staff to quote Chaucer or vomit out physics equations, but you can't remember my chicken?? Sigh. I weep for the future.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I am being too hard on these employees. Perhaps I know nothing of the rigors of the restaurant biz. But what really grinds my gears is the intentional and calculated ignorance of my presence as a customer that requires someone's prompt attention. People make mistakes. I get that, but DON'T IGNORE ME. No one puts Megan in a corner. Or at least standing like an idiot next to the noodle counter. Next time I'll take the bottles of Siracha and start squirting the employees who ignore me. This will only burn for a second...Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-7489412309446298682012-01-01T12:30:00.000-06:002012-01-01T12:30:12.336-06:00Yessss.... a New Year. FINALLY. Happy 2012, world! After having rung in the new year like the old person that I am, with a few appetizers and some "Planet Earth" with a good friend, and then in bed (by myself, don't be gross) before midnight, I have to say that I am probably one of the happiest people on the planet to see 2011 go. I won't go into a ton of painful detail, but I think I can honestly say that 2011 will go down in my history book as pretty much my worst year to date. Riddled with a death in the family, significant personal drama that pretty much destroyed me, and a host of other crap-tastic events, I am very happy to see that as of today, a new year has begun and I can start fresh and hope for a better year ahead. And, let's face it, it won't take much for 2012 to be an improvement on 2011.<br />
<br />
So with this background in mind, I am not going to list off resolutions or anything (mostly because I think resolutions are largely forgotten and swept under the carpet by about January 24 anyway). But I am going to be a bit corny and sentimental (which I know is a little out of character for this blog, so you'll just have to deal) and talk about the things for which I am grateful and for which I am looking forward to in the coming year. So, Ninnymuggins, quit gagging over there and embrace the mushiness...<br />
<br />
First, I am eternally grateful for the love and support of my family and friends (most of whom I consider family anyway). Without them, I am sure that I would not have survived 2011 and all of its atrocities. I think that I would likely be just a pathetic mass of carbon-based material sitting in the corner of her apartment, rocking back and forth and chewing on her hair. So thank you to everyone who helped make sure that I was still breathing and surviving when I needed that help.<br />
<br />
Next, I can honestly say that I am pretty stoked about going back to school in a couple of weeks! When I graduated from law school, I vowed to NEVER AGAIN enter into an academic institution for the purposes of learning. I was convinced that I was done with the whole world of universities, and since graduation caps look RIDICULOUS on me, I would never don one again. Well, guess not. I have finally figured out that I don't want to be a lawyer when I grow up (nice realization after having attended LAW SCHOOL, right?) But that law degree will not have been earned in vain as I have discovered that instead, I want to be a law librarian when I grow up. Seriously. At age 29, I feel that I finally have the right answer to that irritating question of what one wants to become. However, this does involve (you guessed it) MORE SCHOOL. Although now that the pain, humiliation, and eviscerated self-esteem from law school have mostly healed, the idea of heading back to academia seems fun and exciting again. My textbooks for spring semester came from Amazon the other day and I just about squeaked with excitement. Long story short, I'm going back to school and I'm proud of it. Bring on the homework. Let the dorkiness prevail.<br />
<br />
2012 is also about bringing back something that I lost over the course of this past year. I am regaining control of my own life. In 2011 I lost control over just about everything. My finances, my health, my self-esteem, and my relationships. It is amazing the havoc that one individual can wreak on a girl's life. But now that the destructive catalyst has been removed, I am taking my life back. Period. In every respect.<br />
<br />
Finally, I am just grateful to have found myself again. I didn't recognize the person I had become in 2011. She was not the girl I was raised to be and certainly not the girl that I wanted to be, but yet she crept in and took over anyway. She was definitely a dumb girl that wouldn't stand up for herself, and couldn't recognize bad things and warning signs around her. But through the help of the above-mentioned family and friends, I do believe that girl has left the building, and I have returned to myself. It took seeing one of my best friends for the first time in more than a year to shake me out of my stupor, and (figuratively) slap me around a bit to get me to wake up. To this friend, you know who you are, thank you for saving me from drowning.<br />
<br />
So enough of this serious, mushy crap. Bottom line is that I am excited to be rid of 2011 and for the fresh start that 2012 is bringing. This year will be an amazing year and I am excited for its possibilities. 2012 is the year that I will begin my Master's program, the year that I turn 30 (and have a huge party to celebrate), the year that I reach certain health goals, and the year that I re-find and re-become myself again. Happy new year!!Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-18252873962422716722011-11-20T15:08:00.000-06:002011-11-20T15:08:57.226-06:00MOOSE. It's that time of year again. The time of year when my mother and I mercilessly harass each other with a small, dollar store, ceramic moose figurine. If this seems at all ridiculous, read an <a href="http://legalpeacock.blogspot.com/2010/11/moosing-season-is-upon-us.html">earlier post</a> that I wrote a while back explaining "moosing" in some detail.<br />
<br />
I feel sort of bad because last year there was not a whole lot of moosing going on between my Mom and I because I was a bit preoccupied with various personal things, and our tradition sort of fell by the wayside. I realize now that I was letting things that were very important to me slip away in the name of something new and exciting, but the new and exciting isn't always what it's cracked up to be. It is very important that you keep special traditions alive, no matter how ridiculous they may seem. I've learned that over this past year. When the new and exciting doesn't mesh with the old and traditional, then perhaps there is a problem. I am not willing to let a special (albeit insane) tradition with my Mom slip away, and I feel that last year, I was too close to forgetting what was important. There are certain things in life that cannot be replaced, and should not be forgotten, and for me, moosing is one of those things.<br />
<br />
So with that lesson learned, and a renewed vengeful spirit to have the ultimate moose prank this year, I am planning early. Moosing is fair game from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day, and since it takes a plane ride for my Mom and I to be together, then my prank time is limited to the days I will be in Nashville visiting for Thanksgiving, and the three days that I'll be there again for Christmas. <br />
<br />
Naturally, I cannot divulge my evil plans here, as the enemy (my Mom) is a reader, and we cannot ruin the element of surprise. But consider this your warning, Mother. I am heading down to Nashville fully armed with all kinds of sneaky tricks up my sleeve. Beware. You never know where the moose will reveal himself. BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkqLYLCwuBHa596fpmnnnq3C3zfwdFBZ6yRukaWzz0e2o3tGa4B06xB4tzM-VzL5hWuyYPAJqMpsy7eobtrTguF3RGFJNqU88YoeEZqLGeUmHVniBhbUmiiIcbRw573LYiXTqPiplpnL0/s1600/MOOSE%2521+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkqLYLCwuBHa596fpmnnnq3C3zfwdFBZ6yRukaWzz0e2o3tGa4B06xB4tzM-VzL5hWuyYPAJqMpsy7eobtrTguF3RGFJNqU88YoeEZqLGeUmHVniBhbUmiiIcbRw573LYiXTqPiplpnL0/s320/MOOSE%2521+001.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-13219974563147904742011-10-31T21:54:00.001-05:002011-10-31T21:55:34.577-05:00Demon Birdies As a former world-class late sleeper, I am not particularly tolerant of what most people would consider minor annoyances waking me up in the morning. As anyone who has shared a residence with me can attest, I am not the most pleasant person in the mornings. When woken up by something other than an alarm clock, it could be said that I am something less than charming to interact with. There is usually some kind of growling, hissing, and throwing of objects when I am woken up by someone or something not of my doing (alarm clocks hold a slightly different rank of hatred in my world).<br />
<br />
For instance, I was informed that while living in a flat with 5 other people during a study abroad program in London, that everyone was terrified of being the one who had to wake me up. I apparently instill that much fear in my roommates upon awakening. Also, there is something about the last 10 minutes that one gets to sleep in the morning. That time is sacred. It is as if you are cheating the world by lying in bed when you technically <i>could </i>get up, but you just don't feel like it yet. Damn the man! I cherish these minutes so much, that I purposely set my alarm at least 40 minutes early so that I can hit snooze several times, and exacerbate that feeling of getting away with something illicit...<br />
<br />
With this background in mind, consider my reaction when I wake nearly every morning these days to the incessant chirping and rustling about of birds, INSIDE THE VENT in my bedroom. Right above my bed. Seriously. I'm surprised I haven't found feathers and bird excrement on my bed. I've been awoken in such a manner an average of 3 mornings per week for the past 5 months. The birdie awakening instills in me an instant homicidal rage that is very difficult to shake when that is the very first emotion I register in the mornings.<br />
<br />
Upon further investigation, I have seen the rotten little buggers flying in and out of the soffit of my apartment. From there I'm sure they have tunneled themselves into the heat/A-C vent and essentially into my bedroom where they become the incessant-morning-awakening-committee. I am really not sure how to remedy this, but I am hoping that once the heat comes on, they will either figure out that it is time to fly south for the winter, they will refuse to go in the vent because it is too hot, or they will become little birdie BBQ in there and I will be able to sleep in peace. I'm hoping for the latter...Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-43418738244152912922011-08-03T17:59:00.000-05:002011-08-03T17:59:21.600-05:00Everybody is Still Alive I posted a few weeks ago about my new plants and my fear of unintentional herbicide. I am happy to report that my fears were unnecessary and all three of my botanic acquisitions are alive and well. Here is Petunia: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RtrIzKbvwdB9JSGaQ8yRrWF4EQGh1NW6l45B5E8D1mTCDL3cfUvMzblMb7b9GReDaEtqszflPVffmgh0hKEyzKx0_EDlh93AhiKapEB9kX8QVO1pLOKwcEu3z6Dad260dJFB960cqrbQ/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RtrIzKbvwdB9JSGaQ8yRrWF4EQGh1NW6l45B5E8D1mTCDL3cfUvMzblMb7b9GReDaEtqszflPVffmgh0hKEyzKx0_EDlh93AhiKapEB9kX8QVO1pLOKwcEu3z6Dad260dJFB960cqrbQ/s320/002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
She's gotten a bit scraggly in her old age (old = 1 month), but she is still alive, which in and of itself is a minor miracle. She clearly doesn't like me though. She constantly turns all of her flowers away from the patio window and out facing the parking lot (it's not my fault that is where the sun is...) It's not very nice to constantly sit with your back turned toward the person who FEEDS you, Petunia. Learn some manners. For this picture I turned her pot so she would be facing the camera. Notice how all the flowers are facing the same direction? She is like a petulant child. I just think of her as the crabby old lady who lives on my balcony.<br />
<br />
Next up, we have Viola:<br />
<br />
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I feel kind of bad for Viola. Apparently my apartment was not her favorite place because all of her pretty purple flowers shriveled up and died... so I decapitated her. I cut off the stem where all the flowers were because it looked icky. Aesthetics are important to me. I suppose it was something akin to rhinoplasty. But at least her leaves are still growing very nicely. I also noticed today that she is growing a few new stems with tiny flower buds on them, so really, she's more like a flatworm than a houseplant... just regenerating pieces of herself that I cut off. Creepy...<br />
<br />
Finally, my favorite child, Tom!<br />
<br />
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Tom is, in a word, awesome. If you compare his photo from a month ago to this photo, he is clearly the botanical superstar of my house. He has kicked both Petunia and Viola's butts in the dramatic makeover category. But more than that, Tom makes FOOD. Behold:<br />
<br />
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These are the latest of Tom's amazing sustenance providing talents. I already ate the first tomato that he provided (see my <a href="http://dearchocolateitsnotyouitsme.blogspot.com/">other blog</a>; Tom's offspring were included in the Spinach and Ricotta Agnolotti recipe, appearing in the role of TOMATO SAUCE). <br />
<br />
So all in all, my plants are still alive and well. We have the cranky old lady out on the balcony, the decapitated violet in the living room, and Tom the Amazing Tomato Sauce Producing Prodigy!Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-60965244966364761822011-06-26T10:27:00.000-05:002011-06-26T10:27:42.042-05:00Green or Black Thumb? Time Will Tell. I decided recently that it was about time I got over my phobia of killing green things and get a few plants to have at home. I have a bit of a bad history with being able to keep plants alive... I distinctly remember moving into my first apartment on my own with about 5 houseplants. Within 6 months I had no houseplants. That clearly makes me a serial plant killer. But I am hoping that my days of unrelenting violence toward foliage have come to an end. <br />
<br />
I bought three living things yesterday to bring home, enjoy, and (hopefully) keep alive. I immediately named them all as well. I am a strong believer that houseplants require names. It makes them feel included. In college, my roommates and I had several plants around with lovely names. We had a spider-plant named Spike (Spike subsequently had babies that I believe may still be living to this day); and we had an ivy plant called Medusa (and when Medusa died at my hand, we got another one named Medusa Dos). So now to join that illustrious group are my three new babies:<br />
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Viola (my new African Violet):<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznDlbqLOFtTOtVbwVWQdSJudwXkhT_BfjEF7qXJZGAtB2HFjTyEz3xgrdz2XMJWMINCaEkiOi9DJ2juRec-Ocx2jHREBppG8aWJTTWGCB1pl68EjQS7wKHN_GX4se-F4ymkGyxMI-dK_1/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznDlbqLOFtTOtVbwVWQdSJudwXkhT_BfjEF7qXJZGAtB2HFjTyEz3xgrdz2XMJWMINCaEkiOi9DJ2juRec-Ocx2jHREBppG8aWJTTWGCB1pl68EjQS7wKHN_GX4se-F4ymkGyxMI-dK_1/s320/011.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><br />
Tom (my cherry tomato plant):<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctQCK8GQBlx8H9kkhq741Y7gD5TXo16JiqBh0yahOvYXjzsW9Rz7LYnQB12YJp-yPa5DNZwMqJXgrJII68EgWJe7AHo52IP5tHH-jEvmHA_7YgFuhW2Z-K6OOZvNOu7G7Qa73p5p63tsb/s1600/012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctQCK8GQBlx8H9kkhq741Y7gD5TXo16JiqBh0yahOvYXjzsW9Rz7LYnQB12YJp-yPa5DNZwMqJXgrJII68EgWJe7AHo52IP5tHH-jEvmHA_7YgFuhW2Z-K6OOZvNOu7G7Qa73p5p63tsb/s320/012.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><br />
And Petunia (my Petunias - clever, I know...):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissq7LWGqB_uvCzRkQT9fSTum4tGud6CgwNRWWFN8dFZ4YnbXPXaxnxSHMfhUsAwFU5u04Xz8UHvKhb1uFEwRmTyw3ZN8nwDRbKo8_gVMoggI-CoiyTShs78bokSmFS7GHTyL9_UabBujs/s1600/013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissq7LWGqB_uvCzRkQT9fSTum4tGud6CgwNRWWFN8dFZ4YnbXPXaxnxSHMfhUsAwFU5u04Xz8UHvKhb1uFEwRmTyw3ZN8nwDRbKo8_gVMoggI-CoiyTShs78bokSmFS7GHTyL9_UabBujs/s320/013.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><br />
I think of the three, Petunia has the best chance at survival. However, according to my aunt, African Violets are difficult to kill (she has several that have survived for years), so I am going to hope she's right and my bad history with plants ends today. Maybe Viola stands a fighting chance... Tom, I just don't have any idea about. I'm going to have to Google "how not to kill your tomato plants" today to make sure I'm doing everything right.<br />
<br />
So here begins my new botanical adventure. All three specimens survived their first night in my care. Here's hoping for night 2.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-68975699613612585362011-06-13T23:42:00.000-05:002011-06-14T09:44:55.726-05:00Simply Unnecessary. I am not the kind of person that self-righteously reminisces about "when I was <em>their age</em>"..., because I am, after all, only 28 and am not sufficiently far away from <em>their age</em> to have anything profound to say. However I had a rather interesting encounter today wherein the phrase "Kids today!!" was entirely apt. Let me lay the scene for you:<br />
<br />
I was sitting in my local Verizon store waiting my turn to be helped. I couldn't help but overhear the conversation between the nearest Verizon rep and the CHILD with the Android phone in her hand, complete with pink and white cover (no offense to my pink-loving readers out there, but the pink and white just struck me as so appropriately juvenile in this situation). The conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
VZ Rep: No, I'm not sure why Facebook isn't working on your phone. Do you have a Facebook account?<br />
<br />
Overindulged child: Yes.<br />
<br />
VZ Rep: How old are you?<br />
<br />
Overindulged child: Nine.<br />
<br />
VZ Rep: Well, I believe you have to be at least thirteen to sign up for a Facebook account.<br />
<br />
Overindulged child: *<em>guilty silence</em>* My friend made the account for me.<br />
<br />
VZ Rep: Then you need to ask "your friend" to give you the email address and password they used to create this account for you. I can't help you.<br />
<br />
Overindulged child: *<em>makes that defiant throat-clearing sound that indicates to all in her immediate vicinity that she is superior to the Verizon miscreant who deigned to speak to her in such a flippant manner and who refused to assist her in her ongoing Facebook tragedy, worthy of committing to writing by a Greek author of epic tales of woe</em>* **<br />
<br />
** Incidentally, this is the same sound that anyone who has had the pleasure of being a teen-aged girl knows how to make, and has mastered to the point of an art form.<br />
<br />
I could just see in the poor rep's eyes how badly she wanted to use air quotes around the phrase "your friend". Really? This nine year old girl has an Android phone with access to the Internet, and her own Facebook page (which, incidentally is against their terms of use because you do have to be at least thirteen to have an account...). Is this really necessary? I can understand a basic phone to check in with Mom and Dad and assure them that you haven't been eaten by rabid alligators or something, but an Android? Come on now. Give me one good reason why a nine year old requires technology like that and I will eat my words, but from where I sit, this is completely unnecessary. Sigh. Let me just get back to my rocker on the porch with a shotgun and a garden hose to keep these d@mn kids off my lawn...Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-33048338973158692622011-06-12T12:49:00.000-05:002011-06-12T12:49:40.202-05:00This is why I HATE Johnny Cash I am sure that I will incur some Cash-fan hatred with this one, but it is time that I made my point, and the reasons behind it, very clear. The truth of the matter is this: I hate Johnny Cash. Yes. I said it. HATE. My reasons have nothing to do with the man in black himself, but with the malicious and vindictive use of his music as a torture device.<br />
<br />
Anyone who knows me well can attest to the fact that I am physically incapable of not lashing out irrationally at the mere mention of Johnny Cash. Should one of his songs happen to begin playing in the immediate vicinity, one can expect a series of irritated and loathsome words to escape my mouth, along with a face similar to this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVYv-dlOB3UvwoqXSJyqTUqYzO6A4e7Mu-JX7DlFA6A9T8_C6LCJFpBt9Y19RXb4gLNUb06MJubo44V5g1-1kOxO5PpcGdvr7baHc65TBi8c5kA3g2gwvsKQsLLQ8IJEmQmTKkKL1gUn-/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVYv-dlOB3UvwoqXSJyqTUqYzO6A4e7Mu-JX7DlFA6A9T8_C6LCJFpBt9Y19RXb4gLNUb06MJubo44V5g1-1kOxO5PpcGdvr7baHc65TBi8c5kA3g2gwvsKQsLLQ8IJEmQmTKkKL1gUn-/s320/001.JPG" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Or this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFAvSVouasJlarmR5r2nPMlVNY2wy0wBTwnfbKhQORq9hQ2ojPc0TV1zQ0THQtS2IjuDUg0Cycrg2QTdQepvGHHlI1_a7mONF57bN-YyLgiDqx6QHU341pygwW9tO5kwNlB8RWemgfH3P/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFAvSVouasJlarmR5r2nPMlVNY2wy0wBTwnfbKhQORq9hQ2ojPc0TV1zQ0THQtS2IjuDUg0Cycrg2QTdQepvGHHlI1_a7mONF57bN-YyLgiDqx6QHU341pygwW9tO5kwNlB8RWemgfH3P/s320/002.JPG" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Or even this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPv5QpBqiDn8UoXqZi-TDmgOPQKJJD077vxEKlOmO_UyaVX6oXGnh6dtVoprroa_kKkRO1fj1pGGkqDvhEQDLZOhmO8qmYrnNseb8sscbGa8YQHyXJa7AYZDHdfsdOa78q9sYPPVLjdMPd/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPv5QpBqiDn8UoXqZi-TDmgOPQKJJD077vxEKlOmO_UyaVX6oXGnh6dtVoprroa_kKkRO1fj1pGGkqDvhEQDLZOhmO8qmYrnNseb8sscbGa8YQHyXJa7AYZDHdfsdOa78q9sYPPVLjdMPd/s320/003.JPG" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, readers, you now have 3,000 words about how much I can't stand the incessant intervals of that bass preluding into lyrics about prison and rings of fire. "How did she become so angry and cynical about one of the greatest artists of all time?" you must be wondering. Well, I will tell you. <br />
<br />
It all began when I was studying for the Wisconsin bar exam. As the devout student and study-er that I was, I naturally would leave my studying for the evening, as I was working full time during the day. Now, to fully appreciate the depth of my hatred, you really need to understand the pressure that is involved when one is studying for a bar exam. Some of you out there are very aware of what that pressure is. For those of you that aren't, let me give you a brief glimpse into the head of a studying bar examinee... you begin with mild anxiety about the test and whether you will pass. When you first begin studying, the test itself seems so far away, that true panic seems unnecessary. You fall into a sense of false security that "it will be fine" and "I will pass this exam" and "vomiting is not necessary".<br />
<br />
As the days pass and the exam grows nearer, that false security seems to wane. You begin thinking that clearly you are the dumbest person on the planet because you can't remember the difference between a unilateral and a bilateral contract and you're really not one-hundred percent sure of how to spell "jurisdiction" or "causation" anymore. It is at this point that because of the mountains of information you keep stuffing into your brain, that other things like social ability and motor skills take a backseat. You begin to stutter and your eye begins to twitch (true story). The stress and pressure of it all has reduced you to a blathering idiot who can only think about law. You wake up thinking about law. You go to sleep thinking about law. You dream about law. You lose the ability to say or even spell the word "statue" without turning it into "statute". Some of us will never recover from this one (you know who you are).<br />
<br />
It was in this state of severe mental disarray that my hatred for Johnny Cash was bred. There I was, sitting on my couch, books and papers scattered all around me, when I heard a strange sound. "Bum, bum... bum, bum... bum, bum...". "What the hell is th-that?", I stuttered as my eye twitched involuntarily. I ventured into my bedroom and the noise grew louder. From there I could hear the unmistakable lyrics to "Ring of Fire" (we've all seen "Walk the Line"; I can recognize that nonsense anywhere). The music was coming through the wall at such a volume that I could make out every lyric in every verse. This was not OK. This was not the first time my neighbor had irritated me, but given my mental state at that moment, I was irrationally angry. Seeing red angry. Throwing pillows around the room angry. Pounding on the freaking wall angry. <br />
<br />
I took this opportunity to calmly and collectedly call my apartment manager and politely inform him of the ruckus next door. Translation: I called him up and demanded that he get his butt over here NOW to tell that idiot next door to turn that crap off because I have to study and pass the bar exam otherwise I will never get a job and I will live in poverty for the rest of my life selling all of my worldly possessions to pay for my student loans. The manager arrived not 10 minutes later, had a chat with the neighbor, and the auditory assault ended, at least for that evening. But the damage had already begun to be done.<br />
<br />
To lend a bit more background to the situation, it came to my attention that the Cash-loving neighbor was actually one of my apartment complex's maintenance men. As such an individual, one would at least infer that he might have a heightened sense of public responsibility, compassion for his fellow man, and consideration for his neighbors. We all know the saying, "don't poop where you eat". Well, in the case of a maintenance man who lives where he works, he should be especially cognizant of his surroundings and be on his best behavior. But alas, he evidently was not.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to 2 days later. I am again sitting on the couch, surrounded by all my study materials, and the INCESSANT bass notes begin again. Tonight however it is louder and more irritating than ever before. I pick up the phone and ever so politely call the manager over again. He shows up and proceeds to pound on the neighbor's door. He pounds again. And again. He pounds for a full 10 minutes. Manager then informs me that neighbor is probably drunk, as he was fairly inebriated on the evening of his previous offense. Neighbor is likely PASSED OUT with the offensive music playing and there is really nothing to be done if he won't come to the door. So sorry for the inconvenience. You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. This is when the law dork portion of me begins her internal diatribe about "breaching the warranty of habitability" and other such prattle.<br />
<br />
At this point is is nearly 10:30 p.m. I am in a complete state of emotional upheaval. I am panicked about the impending bar exam, I am livid at the idiot next door, I am reacting irrationally, and the soundtrack to all of this is freaking JOHNNY CASH. I made the decision to drive the nearly 45 minutes out to my parents' house in order to ensure at least some sleep that evening, because no one could tell when the aural onslaught might end. Not impressed.<br />
<br />
At least there was a happy ending in all of this. Despite the idiocy next door, I did manage to pass the Wisconsin bar exam, and I did manage to put the fear of God into my imbecile neighbor so as to prevent any further auditory trespass of Mr. Cash until I moved out. It is amazing what a threat to break a lease and a nasty conversation with your apartment complex's regional managers will do...<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, long story short: I do now, and I will forever more, hate Johnny Cash. I hope that by providing my tale of woe, the true Cash-lovers will forgive me for my hatred... and simply tolerate my fits of rage whenever those tell-tale bass notes enter my consciousness.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-65578772312708073972011-04-27T22:13:00.000-05:002011-04-27T22:14:57.042-05:00The Tragic Demise of Umbrella My umbrella is (was) fabulous. Purchased for a mere $5.00 at Wal-Mart (don't judge), it was a picture of fiscal responsibility. Black with white and yellow flowers, a soft, sponge-y u-shaped handle; it was lovely, affordable and useful. A rare buy in my experience. Unfortunately, umbrella has definitely celebrated his last hurrah. Due partially to my abuse, and mostly to the inhuman wind yesterday, umbrella will shortly be laid to rest. Here follows the tale of the the untimely demise of Umbrella:<br />
<br />
Umbrella has been a silent stow-away in my work bag, and sometimes in my purse, for quite some time now. It sits there quietly waiting for a rainy day during which it can fulfill its simple purpose: keeping me dry. I decided to put umbrella in my purse, rather than in my work bag, for a short trip to Wisconsin last month. I was sitting at McDonald's with the fiance, Ninny-Muggins and Baby Ninny-Muggins, and suddenly I felt an unnerving POP from inside my purse. What was that? Did a mislaid bottle of soda just explode? Is there a rubber band-snapping purse gremlin hiding in there? Should I be afraid of putting my hand inside for fear that it might be covered in lotion/contact solution/makeup/whatever-other-viscous-fluid-was-lurking-in-a-not-safe-for-purses-container? But alas, it was poor umbrella that had caused the ruckus. Umbrella had twisted himself in such a way that his poor squishy handle snapped off. Inside my purse. WTF...??? Anyway, despite losing a limb to a violent, yet unintentional accident, umbrella and I persevered, and although injured, umbrella lived to shield me from rain another day (yesterday to be exact).<br />
<br />
Yesterday's weather definitely left something to be desired. Rainy and very windy. The perfect day to stay inside, but for those of us that had to leave the house, it was, to say the least, unpleasant. I got to work at my usual time, and proceeded to patrol the parking lot looking for a space. Ordinarily I am able to find a parking space in the closest lot, however apparently the universe thought yesterday was the day to poo on me so naturally there were no spots available. I had to park essentially in Guam, which instantly put me in a bad mood.<br />
<br />
I grabbed trusty Umbrella and got out of the car to brave the long trek into the building. Immediately, the wind caught poor umbrella and flipped his innards out and bent his hinges in unnatural directions. It was like a scene from a bad horror movie. Reminiscent of Linda Blair crawling down the stairs upside down and contorted in "The Exorcist". Luckily, umbrella was able to flip himself back into a decent shape, but the wind had not finished its cruel ordeal. As I began the long walk to the building, the wind was relentless. It continued beating and battering umbrella within an inch of his life. Umbrella did his best to protect me from the rain and wind, acting more as a shield in front of me, rather than as a canopy over me. His hinges were all bent around me as the wind proceeded to flip him inside out several more times before I reached the safety of the lobby.<br />
<br />
Once we got inside, I surveyed the damage. Umbrella was sufficiently beaten. But he had to live to fight for one more journey from the building back out to my car. After my shift yesterday, we again made the journey from the building to the car. Umbrella tried his hardest to perform his umbrellical duties. He was again rendered inside-out several times, but he has finally been put to rest down the trash chute it my apartment building. It was a sad day, but umbrella will be remembered fondly. R.I.P. umbrella.<br />
<br />
<br />
Update: I just found out that the evil wind and rain from yesterday claimed another umbrella victim. A sad day for umbrellas everywhere.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-62842318358191911602011-03-02T12:28:00.000-06:002011-03-02T12:34:57.702-06:00Automated Bathrooms are the Devil. We've all been there. You're in a public bathroom stall, minding your own business... literally... just letting your mind wander as your body does what it was designed to do, and all of a sudden WHOOSH!!!! The flippin' toilet flushes all by itself causing you to receive an uncomfortably damp hiney; damp with nasty toilet water and all the other unspeakable things which were recently deposited. What folly is this? The toilet just flushes by itself? As if operated by some demonic toilet troll who relishes in delight at the prospect of causing severe uncomfortableness in even the least zealous of germ-o-phobes? Who's idea was this?<br />
<br />
It truly is a sad commentary on the world we live in when expecting individuals to merely FLUSH after themselves is simply too much to ask. I like to think that we, as a human race, would collectively be able to handle such a menial expectation. After all, no one wants to look at that. There is such a nice and convenient little lever provided just for the purpose of ridding the world of such ugly sights. It is almost even satisfying to be able to just press a button to clean up after oneself. If only everything were that easy. But alas. Even the simplest of expectations is sadly not met by everyone. I was the victim of just such an individual a mere three days ago. I entered the public facility, opened the stall door and to my horror, I was greeted by a most disturbing sight. I won't go into detail, but there is just something about seeing the digestive remains of another human being that is, in a word, gross. So the rationale behind creating automatically flushing toilets is not completely lost on me, but I am still deeply disappointed in humanity for necessitating such an invention. <br />
<br />
I am convinced the automatic flushing apparatus in these toilets was designed by some twisted sadist that enjoys causing havoc in the lives of his invention's unwilling users. It is simply impossible for the stupid thing to work properly at the appropriate time. It will flush when you are not at all prepared or ready for flushing to occur, creating the damp and germy hiney situation described in some detail above; or it will simply refuse to flush when appropriate, causing the user to unnecessarily fret that she will be labeled as one of the "dirty ones" on whom flushing etiquette is lost. This cannot and should not be.<br />
<br />
Moving on. Only slightly less sinister than the automated toilet is the automated sink. The automated sink coupled with the automated soap dispenser is the Devil's Duo from Hell. When one works, the other invariably malfunctions. You will either have wet hands with no soap, or worse, soapy hands with no way to rinse them. The user is forced into engage in a ridiculous dance of jumping from sink to sink trying desperately to find at least one sink and one soap dispenser that will function properly so as to rinse the germy splashes from the evil automated toilet from her skin. We have all engaged in this dance and if you deny it, it is clear that you are a fibber. <br />
<br />
Finally, it is an undeniable truth that automatic hand dryers will never operate properly at any time. You will stand there like an idiot with dripping wet hands, waving them wildly under the dryer, trying to appease the sensor which relishes in your damp helplessness. Eventually you will come to a mental crossroads. Do you stand there and continue flailing to attempt to make the dryer work? Or do you give up, admit defeat, wipe your wet hands on your pants and leave the bathroom a lesser person than when you entered because you were foiled by the automated beast?<br />
<br />
Now I understand the rationale behind these automated bathrooms. Germ-o-phobes will tout their praises to the heavens (I'm talking to you, Ninny-muggins), but in my humble opinion, I'd much rather take my chances with the Ebolas and Bird Flus of the world than prepare for automated battle each and every time I enter a public restroom. But maybe that's just me.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-71532094393306273742011-01-16T20:22:00.000-06:002011-01-16T20:22:13.885-06:00A Shambles. You know that old saying, "when it rains, it pours"? Well dear reader, it is freaking pouring. I have been hunting for a new job for longer than I care to admit for several reasons. First, it is simply time that I moved on because although my current job has been amazing and I have learned more than I ever expected to, I have reached the point where it is simply time that I branch out and take on a new challenge. Second, as many of you know, I am currently living in what I affectionately call "the sticks", and I have been more than ready for a LONG time to get back to civilization (a.k.a. the Twin Cities). <br />
<br />
So, fast forward to last MONDAY... a mere 6 days ago, when I got the phone call I have been begging for over the past year and a half. I GOT A NEW JOB. Is this really happening?? Am I finally getting what I've wanted for so long and have been cruelly denied?? Do I actually get to move back to a place where "going to Target" is not a day long escapade??? YES!!! That is a huge affirmative!!! WAHOO!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Now that the excitement of "getting back to civilization" has worn off, reality has set in. And reality is a tad overwhelming. I will be starting said new job one week from tomorrow. New job is 3 hours away. This requires moving. I have not started packing...I have a lot of stuff...I should go through the stuff..the stuff is EVERYWHERE..do I have time to go through the stuff or do I just shove all the stuff in boxes? Do I have enough boxes? I need to find a truck... and helpers... and boxes... and change addresses and forward mail and find a new apartment and pay security deposits and find a subleaser and BOOM!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
That was the sound of my head exploding.<br />
<br />
It is indeed pouring. One big part of my stress was alleviated yesterday when the fiance and I found a great apartment and signed our lease. Now at least I have an address to start using for changing addresses, etc. I will, for the first time since I last lived with my Mom and Dad, have my own DISHWASHER (this is cause for celebration), and my own WASHER AND DRYER in our apartment! No more lugging huge laundry baskets through the snowbank, into my car, to the laundromat, back into the car, and through the snowbank and back into the house. I can simply toss my clothes in the washer that only WE get to use which is a mere 15 feet away. SO EXCITED. And the most important part of all??? I won't feel the need to hoard quarters away every time I find one in my wallet because I need them for laundry. I can go buy a gumball if I want and I don't have to feel guilty. Yes. These are the things I think about.<br />
<br />
I am a very type A person and I am a huge fan of lists, therefore this is quite obviously a time when lists are my best friend. I get great personal satisfaction from being able to cross something off my list when it is completed (no matter how minuscule). I'll even consider putting stupid crap on my list just for the joy it brings me to cross it off... for example, I may put something like "clip toenails" on my moving list because it serves two distinct purposes. First, it is something simple that I can do in minimal time and then I get to cross it off my list... and feel a sense of accomplishment. Second, it is a relatively unimportant and not necessarily productive thing I can do to procrastinate and distract me from the important and pressing things (read: packing my entire household into boxes) that actually need to get done. A girl needs priorities.<br />
<br />
That being said, I currently have T-minus 6 days in which to pack my entire house into boxes capable of withstanding a move in the dead of winter. Clearly, it is time to clip the toenails and cross that off my list. I am a pure example of productivity. Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-23479190956410193912011-01-03T15:02:00.000-06:002011-01-03T15:10:30.054-06:00New Year's Eve Musings I distinctly recall a New Year's Eve (NYE) several years ago where I just HAD to have a certain outfit to wear and HAD to have a perfect party and HAD to go out to the bars afterward and HAD to have a perfect night. I remember finding an awesome top on line and spending nearly $90 on it (plus expedited shipping) so that I would have my awesome NYE outfit. Despite the fact that it had a gorgeous beaded peacock on it, even I have to admit that $90 was a tad excessive. Not to mention the money and time spent in preparing for my party/paying cover charges at bars/drink expenses. And quite honestly, it was a fun night (I suppose) but honestly not much different than any other night out, other than the higher bill. I thought that the whole evening was just a prelude to the magical moment at midnight when everyone cheers and drinks champagne and kisses one another. And when that moment came, your whole night was supposed to be transformed into one of those movie moments where you are having the time of your life and champagne rains from the heavens. Get real.<br />
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I've had several NYEs along those same lines and all of them seem to end up being a bit of a let down because we put so much pressure on one night to be this magical end all/be all of awesome trophy worthy nights. I've actually had plenty of nights out that end up being so much better than NYE because they were very unplanned, unchoreographed and impromptu so that you focus on the good time you're actually having, rather than the amazing time you're supposed to be having. (An evening of speaking Arabic to cab drivers and getting cheese in one's hair comes to mind). So for the past few years, I've eschewed the pursuit of grandeur and had significantly lower key NYEs and had way more fun in the process.<br />
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Last year, I recall my "prefect outfit" consisting of my ratty UWO sweatshirt, socks and jeans. I spent the evening with good friends drinking a few beers and playing Nintendo Wii all night. Who knew that 4 player Super Mario Brothers could be so amusing... I had a great time. Then this year, I again spent the time with great friends and my new fiancee. We all went to dinner at a <a href="http://www.scusistpaul.com/">fun new Italian place in St. Paul</a>, then went back home and watched a movie and completely missed midnight because we weren't even paying attention. And again, I had a great time. No pressure or expectations, just fun (and an awesome olive selection... seriously, try out Scusi, you won't regret it).<br />
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Maybe I'm just getting old and lame, but these days I'd prefer a good meal and a good movie to a bar and a crowded dance floor. So happy New Year and Happy 2011 to everyone from this fallen away NYE partier!!! I'll sit here with my sweatshirt and beer and go to bed early and leave the insane NYE partying to those that are much cooler than I!Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-18636159930328774382010-12-21T11:14:00.000-06:002010-12-21T11:14:15.949-06:00I feel Like a 6th Grader. 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.<br />
<br />
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 (<a href="http://www.tbs.com/movies/movietitle/0,,%7C%7C2099,00.html">24 hours straight of "A Christmas Story" anyone</a>??), and the time I get to spend with my awesome parents who I generally don't get to hang out with nearly enough.<br />
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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?Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-24065277798042250212010-12-09T11:43:00.000-06:002010-12-09T11:47:12.161-06:00Nostrils 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. <br />
<br />
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!!<br />
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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.<br />
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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!!".<br />
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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:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://mikehenneke.mvourtown.com/files/2009/12/1205nyquil_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://mikehenneke.mvourtown.com/files/2009/12/1205nyquil_large.jpg" width="149" /></a></div> 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. <br />
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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.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-39607391602003551832010-12-08T18:39:00.000-06:002010-12-08T18:40:12.645-06:00Merry 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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.holidazzle.com/">Holidazzle Parade</a>. 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.<br />
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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 <em>was</em> 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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7HIKNmSCAKlUZ7uM8G7L9i_P_AIOZ4ulZTy1f-VpG-4Va7cFuypEJ4NEooFddvTf40cjbP2k_G9mE4WoNv95AD6URGR5hSDABYy0FnNUGkq3BY0ApAStDBvYy54hMhbIOQ_LJixJ02i6/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7HIKNmSCAKlUZ7uM8G7L9i_P_AIOZ4ulZTy1f-VpG-4Va7cFuypEJ4NEooFddvTf40cjbP2k_G9mE4WoNv95AD6URGR5hSDABYy0FnNUGkq3BY0ApAStDBvYy54hMhbIOQ_LJixJ02i6/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYAzqQdE9dTWHtu-Qvaly7G63eXXDL5_tbd1AubJHj_8hrra3vi6Q4i2esxnaOs9OSB5pRDRZhjMuLv_MZclkMh0r7XCuk9lM1JxTl6ghRFElLGqGJbZfEe53MJ9uTcu5LH2rmd_Vyy1u/s1600/018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYAzqQdE9dTWHtu-Qvaly7G63eXXDL5_tbd1AubJHj_8hrra3vi6Q4i2esxnaOs9OSB5pRDRZhjMuLv_MZclkMh0r7XCuk9lM1JxTl6ghRFElLGqGJbZfEe53MJ9uTcu5LH2rmd_Vyy1u/s320/018.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The infamous snow plow with icicle lights on it... har har har...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTYtWftJs4D6SkIgLdGv-batd3js8IakBgTCnkphtmWSqX5Dgr_f6fEbl9AF0sRbv4NI4uNhyphenhyphenrEasG06dEeD8RJgJ50wl6VQSR1_Frin3BwHiBspGKvFbJDjky-BnzGlm9Sa-GpQLgY9S/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTYtWftJs4D6SkIgLdGv-batd3js8IakBgTCnkphtmWSqX5Dgr_f6fEbl9AF0sRbv4NI4uNhyphenhyphenrEasG06dEeD8RJgJ50wl6VQSR1_Frin3BwHiBspGKvFbJDjky-BnzGlm9Sa-GpQLgY9S/s320/017.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Snow plow again.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjsZbcUV1Gsy_Okgpfe-g_bOJ6R7AUPlAplHS29nNXnRmuWCE6rB8X5yfnGPj__M51vDC3qvUS7kYlvIqaTem0BLKakCquhVGqjfTDLOrZ5xYJ_XAPyf0QPhnbKDEpXclDYdfC2C5m7QRf/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjsZbcUV1Gsy_Okgpfe-g_bOJ6R7AUPlAplHS29nNXnRmuWCE6rB8X5yfnGPj__M51vDC3qvUS7kYlvIqaTem0BLKakCquhVGqjfTDLOrZ5xYJ_XAPyf0QPhnbKDEpXclDYdfC2C5m7QRf/s320/015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZMnz0DEXIMucLyfUk9dBBb76uOGvj1RFn_XrefdJwf6XHQceDRCUXs_U-HVdh8P3waX0nsSSYh1JWAMTlJsD5VTiWEBnKlT75xJPRkv8PMu1h2YXBj05gnQ60Jj134jlqF6IYEEvDiY8P/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZMnz0DEXIMucLyfUk9dBBb76uOGvj1RFn_XrefdJwf6XHQceDRCUXs_U-HVdh8P3waX0nsSSYh1JWAMTlJsD5VTiWEBnKlT75xJPRkv8PMu1h2YXBj05gnQ60Jj134jlqF6IYEEvDiY8P/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvHQaG6PEEbTDg_0mmKe_ta3qrWuHmq-isKoHRos5BIrvlhGd1NHxY85I0sBXhF2aFPgfRvWuttI9k4KRi0i40YuJ3jRmpMdB2SxsjjUaF815Uq14EKXsaMMFX-jGHJgxpkCF0BXQB4wS/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvHQaG6PEEbTDg_0mmKe_ta3qrWuHmq-isKoHRos5BIrvlhGd1NHxY85I0sBXhF2aFPgfRvWuttI9k4KRi0i40YuJ3jRmpMdB2SxsjjUaF815Uq14EKXsaMMFX-jGHJgxpkCF0BXQB4wS/s320/007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And of course the FFA rolling up in their grain bin trailer thingy...</div>Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-69920391351914574792010-11-19T18:42:00.000-06:002010-11-19T18:46:52.282-06:00Evil 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.<br />
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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:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeukvvAsrdlr37dfd94X6Gcfyx2WA2ii3OeENIaNUbK2VDu3uif2mwhbDOo92BuFhhCrsyv4_K8YNR-0WBQ1Ivw3istPA4zVy6BK5xbbeerSFZEMlrt1lIa5RiiIOL4vQMRRSQcrPySMWf/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeukvvAsrdlr37dfd94X6Gcfyx2WA2ii3OeENIaNUbK2VDu3uif2mwhbDOo92BuFhhCrsyv4_K8YNR-0WBQ1Ivw3istPA4zVy6BK5xbbeerSFZEMlrt1lIa5RiiIOL4vQMRRSQcrPySMWf/s320/023.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div> 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 <a href="http://peopleofwalmart.com/">peopleofwalmart.com</a> 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:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweGrpBrHSbOCwiQ2NlQaPa3z80fT87Uyle4mnqaW5JcC-8upRsgqRXEai40ZHIjdCRvvX1X0eZNMlIqHZTzPWWXegGOJD9D4rwY3ejIfOfm7JVyNY9wDwLw3GlT1ox0-BEJ_SY-ieC1-S/s1600/024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweGrpBrHSbOCwiQ2NlQaPa3z80fT87Uyle4mnqaW5JcC-8upRsgqRXEai40ZHIjdCRvvX1X0eZNMlIqHZTzPWWXegGOJD9D4rwY3ejIfOfm7JVyNY9wDwLw3GlT1ox0-BEJ_SY-ieC1-S/s320/024.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here is a picture of the evil impostor product that I accidentally grabbed instead:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqkPc9rnfMifTTqgKs9H5mfJ4AkbCZ4Ojs-lPOVNZoZ88ImZDnSOHMvqiRUdnpzGzXVUxVq7z45hMXUNHNx2Bzjfbb1F7uovJEIe2clAR2EaBYDvDRDfP0Jh0us5Yv1iA4bLN-Rq7WaaG/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqkPc9rnfMifTTqgKs9H5mfJ4AkbCZ4Ojs-lPOVNZoZ88ImZDnSOHMvqiRUdnpzGzXVUxVq7z45hMXUNHNx2Bzjfbb1F7uovJEIe2clAR2EaBYDvDRDfP0Jh0us5Yv1iA4bLN-Rq7WaaG/s320/022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
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.<br />
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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*.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">* Of course by "flawless" and "perfect" I mean "mediocre and not frightening".</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div align="left"> 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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> 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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> 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 <a href="http://www.google.com/">Google</a>, the oracle of all of life's answers, searching for a solution to my problem.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> 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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> I will give you a moment to digest the ramifications of this.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">...</div><div align="left">...</div><div align="left">...</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7GJcKuVGm8">scene from the Wizard of Oz</a> 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...</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> 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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div>Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-10464608294942273572010-11-17T21:39:00.000-06:002010-11-22T08:18:02.472-06:00Moosing 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:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOyHL6DyVu49nDwRw9ZqiC0OsRZAOuQF-SyVfUcSQa_BBEoyMIPMiqyfYW4-BH-nEwAheBx-eVMLdJRAfLf3u34QA8DFkf30fOzo-pog_zMpXP9JQsQIo8W-VFv6ptrpYlcBSH_YwtLPW/s1600/MOOSE%2521+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOyHL6DyVu49nDwRw9ZqiC0OsRZAOuQF-SyVfUcSQa_BBEoyMIPMiqyfYW4-BH-nEwAheBx-eVMLdJRAfLf3u34QA8DFkf30fOzo-pog_zMpXP9JQsQIo8W-VFv6ptrpYlcBSH_YwtLPW/s320/MOOSE%2521+001.jpg" width="267" /></a></div> 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. <br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
Here is a look at my (awesome) mother and I :) Love you!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fmA-dAIvAy4OC_HrDXACG-bQOpKudHyVMhnVDZIO78qWBGLxZ-WvsdE4NjOF4dbPsA4hPYJelbA-9sGFJyurAizpOk5WGs-eDmqw0FSu9yyqqlHDscsmJ0GndYGmjA2_uYM8WS4AFclC/s1600/Summer+2010+085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fmA-dAIvAy4OC_HrDXACG-bQOpKudHyVMhnVDZIO78qWBGLxZ-WvsdE4NjOF4dbPsA4hPYJelbA-9sGFJyurAizpOk5WGs-eDmqw0FSu9yyqqlHDscsmJ0GndYGmjA2_uYM8WS4AFclC/s320/Summer+2010+085.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3209462403731439866.post-89416522697245710782010-11-17T15:00:00.000-06:002010-11-17T16:20:42.499-06:00Ketchup 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! <br />
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. <br />
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...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://paramita.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341feff153ef0133f4d8f7fe970b-800wi" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="http://paramita.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341feff153ef0133f4d8f7fe970b-800wi" width="320" /></a></div> 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.<br />
I brought my chicken tenders and fries home to eat while watching <a href="http://www.rachaelray.com/">Rachael Ray</a> and <a href="http://www.barefootcontessa.com/">Ina Garten</a> on <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/">Food Network</a> (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. <br />
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.<br />
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? <br />
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.Megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673915883724587088noreply@blogger.com0