Hi all. Not sure anyone reads this bad boy anymore, but due to some, uhh, unexpected life circumstances, I will be blogging at: www.breakingupwithcaptaincrunch.blogspot.com
Follow me there for the wackiness that is the life of a newly diagnosed Celiac. I will probably also be blogging embarrassingly often about my dog.
Hope to see you there.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Friday, August 26, 2011
Don't Look Behind the Dryer
Luke and I sometimes feel like we live in the Money Pit house, except instead of being a big, glorious estate, it is a small, kinda crappy townhouse. You wouldn't think we would have that many problems, seeing as it was only build like 10 years ago. I am pretty sure I have t-shirts older than that (all of which have required far less maintenance), and I know in terms of buildings, that's really not that old.
Which is why anytime anything goes wrong, I throw an unholy fit, complete with foot stomping, hair pulling and smoke streaming out of my ears. It's just how I roll.
My husband is a firm believer in the philosophy of "throw money at it until it goes away," whereas I prescribe to the school of thought of "no way dude, that takes money out of the shoe fund." So we are do-it-yourselfers. Sort of. Usually we are "do-the-best-you-can-until-you-screw-up-and-then-call-Dad"ers.
So when the dryer stopped, um, drying, I immediately go into panic mode while Luke starts flipping through sales ads.
"This one is nice. And it's red."
"OH MY GOD I HAVE WET CLOTHES! I NEED DRY CLOTHES! RRRAAAAAGGHHH!"
Upon realizing how much washer/dryer combos actually cost, Luke quickly changes his tune.
Which is how I got stuck behind the dryer.
Not stuck like, "oh, this is slightly uncomfortable. I don't care for it."
Stuck like, "Call the reinforcements. And order pizza. We are going to be here for a while." I felt like a Chilean miner back there, all covered in lint and dog hair and for some strange reason, Monopoly money.
But I came out of it $1.26 richer ($152.26 richer, if you count the Monopoly money). I guess that is a win.
Which is why anytime anything goes wrong, I throw an unholy fit, complete with foot stomping, hair pulling and smoke streaming out of my ears. It's just how I roll.
My husband is a firm believer in the philosophy of "throw money at it until it goes away," whereas I prescribe to the school of thought of "no way dude, that takes money out of the shoe fund." So we are do-it-yourselfers. Sort of. Usually we are "do-the-best-you-can-until-you-screw-up-and-then-call-Dad"ers.
So when the dryer stopped, um, drying, I immediately go into panic mode while Luke starts flipping through sales ads.
"This one is nice. And it's red."
"OH MY GOD I HAVE WET CLOTHES! I NEED DRY CLOTHES! RRRAAAAAGGHHH!"
Upon realizing how much washer/dryer combos actually cost, Luke quickly changes his tune.
Which is how I got stuck behind the dryer.
Not stuck like, "oh, this is slightly uncomfortable. I don't care for it."
Stuck like, "Call the reinforcements. And order pizza. We are going to be here for a while." I felt like a Chilean miner back there, all covered in lint and dog hair and for some strange reason, Monopoly money.
But I came out of it $1.26 richer ($152.26 richer, if you count the Monopoly money). I guess that is a win.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Weddings, Nostalgia, and Fighting with Bears
I love weddings. I do. I love the beautiful dresses, the happy celebration and the fact that two more people are on their way to being boring old marrieds like me. At each ceremony we attend, my husband tenderly holds my hand during the vows, looking at me adoringly, and I can see just what he's thinking: "Yes! Someone else whose idea of fun will soon be watching 'Chopped' and eating ice cream in sweats." You know what they say, misery loves company.
But more to the point, I love receptions. Any event that centers around dancing to cheesy love songs and eating cake is so up my alley. The wedding I attended this past weekend did not disappoint, because in addition to getting my groove on to the dulcet tones of Ke$ha, and eating delicious, delicious cake, we got to drink with bears. My friend had her reception at the zoo, with cocktail hour taking place at the bear exhibit. Fabulous and exciting, though it would have been moreso if the bears would have been serving hors d'oeuvres or mixing drinks or something (they weren't even dressed for the occasion - did no one tell them that it is tacky to wear white if you aren't the bride? Way to go, polar bear).
Regardless, it was a fabulous event, and I wish the couple nothing but years and years ofboring happy marital bliss. And if they ever need to get their fill of watching Food Network on someone else's couch, I will gladly offer ours.
But more to the point, I love receptions. Any event that centers around dancing to cheesy love songs and eating cake is so up my alley. The wedding I attended this past weekend did not disappoint, because in addition to getting my groove on to the dulcet tones of Ke$ha, and eating delicious, delicious cake, we got to drink with bears. My friend had her reception at the zoo, with cocktail hour taking place at the bear exhibit. Fabulous and exciting, though it would have been moreso if the bears would have been serving hors d'oeuvres or mixing drinks or something (they weren't even dressed for the occasion - did no one tell them that it is tacky to wear white if you aren't the bride? Way to go, polar bear).
Regardless, it was a fabulous event, and I wish the couple nothing but years and years of
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Are You Sure You Don't Mean Noah's Arcade?
Whoever said there is no such thing as a stupid question has obviously never worked in a library. From time to time, I get such fabulous little gems that I can't help but share. Enjoy.
Not too long ago, a mom came in with her third-grade son. They were looking for books about Noah's Ark, and since it is such a popular topic for picture book illustrators, I showed her every children's book I had featuring the Biblical Boat. But nothing seemed to work for her. She just kept shaking her head and saying, "this isn't it, this can't be the all of them." After working her way through the stack of books, she comes back up to the desk and pleads with me to share my uber-knowledge.
"I know you have it here," she whispers. "You have the list."
I have lots of lists. I tell her as much. I have lists of books for schools, lists of award winners, lists of things I need to do, but none of those is what she is looking for.
"I need the complete list of the animals Noah had on the Ark."
"Excuse me?" I asked, puzzled as to why a grown, seemingly functional adult is asking me for a complete list of EVERY. ANIMAL. ON. THE. ARK.
"We need it for school," she explains. "He has to do a report, and I need a whole list."
What should I do? Do I point out that, in accordance to Christian theology, the premise that Noah took two of every animal on the ark would mean the list would be taller than the building we stood in? Do I make something up?At this point, I have to stop and search for my best customer service voice.
"Well, I don't think I have the *exact* list," I say, cheerfully. "One could assume it would be two of every animal that isn't seafaring."
"But he needs something to cite for his paper," she said.
"How about the Bible?"
"But that doesn't have a list in it. Isn't there something that you can give me?"
Finally, after exhausting my patience and my collection, I just hand her an illustrated book of Bible stories from a few years ago.
"I think this is as close as we are going to get," I tell her, hoping that she will just take the book and leave. She heaves a pretty big sigh, then takes it back to a table. She's thumbing through it pretty diligently when I hear her exclaim with relief:
"Look, Tommy, God saved the seals!"
Do with that what you may.
Not too long ago, a mom came in with her third-grade son. They were looking for books about Noah's Ark, and since it is such a popular topic for picture book illustrators, I showed her every children's book I had featuring the Biblical Boat. But nothing seemed to work for her. She just kept shaking her head and saying, "this isn't it, this can't be the all of them." After working her way through the stack of books, she comes back up to the desk and pleads with me to share my uber-knowledge.
"I know you have it here," she whispers. "You have the list."
I have lots of lists. I tell her as much. I have lists of books for schools, lists of award winners, lists of things I need to do, but none of those is what she is looking for.
"I need the complete list of the animals Noah had on the Ark."
"Excuse me?" I asked, puzzled as to why a grown, seemingly functional adult is asking me for a complete list of EVERY. ANIMAL. ON. THE. ARK.
"We need it for school," she explains. "He has to do a report, and I need a whole list."
What should I do? Do I point out that, in accordance to Christian theology, the premise that Noah took two of every animal on the ark would mean the list would be taller than the building we stood in? Do I make something up?At this point, I have to stop and search for my best customer service voice.
"Well, I don't think I have the *exact* list," I say, cheerfully. "One could assume it would be two of every animal that isn't seafaring."
"But he needs something to cite for his paper," she said.
"How about the Bible?"
"But that doesn't have a list in it. Isn't there something that you can give me?"
Finally, after exhausting my patience and my collection, I just hand her an illustrated book of Bible stories from a few years ago.
"I think this is as close as we are going to get," I tell her, hoping that she will just take the book and leave. She heaves a pretty big sigh, then takes it back to a table. She's thumbing through it pretty diligently when I hear her exclaim with relief:
"Look, Tommy, God saved the seals!"
Do with that what you may.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Masters of the Universe
By the power of Grayskull, I am a freakin' graduate. Again.
One of the reasons this blog got a little dust on it for the past year is that my time has been spent on scholarly pursuits. And by scholarly pursuits, I mean instead of blogging I was avoiding doing homework.
But no more. My homework avoiding days are done. I officially finished grad school, and now can slap a host of letters after my name on things like business cards, e-mail signatures and take-out orders.
In all honesty, though as I was going through school it felt like seven eternities, looking back it really was only about 2 years from making the decision to go back to finishing. The good thing is that the husband finished grad school earlier this summer, so now we are looking forward to being just a couple of over-educated aristocrats, drinking Cristal every night and riding around on unicorns. Or, you know, drinking a liter of Arbor Mist and crying because the "government" wants money back for all those student loans that seemed like a good idea two years ago.
Either way. Grad school over. Now it looks like I am going to have to find another excuse to use for being lazy.
One of the reasons this blog got a little dust on it for the past year is that my time has been spent on scholarly pursuits. And by scholarly pursuits, I mean instead of blogging I was avoiding doing homework.
But no more. My homework avoiding days are done. I officially finished grad school, and now can slap a host of letters after my name on things like business cards, e-mail signatures and take-out orders.
In all honesty, though as I was going through school it felt like seven eternities, looking back it really was only about 2 years from making the decision to go back to finishing. The good thing is that the husband finished grad school earlier this summer, so now we are looking forward to being just a couple of over-educated aristocrats, drinking Cristal every night and riding around on unicorns. Or, you know, drinking a liter of Arbor Mist and crying because the "government" wants money back for all those student loans that seemed like a good idea two years ago.
Either way. Grad school over. Now it looks like I am going to have to find another excuse to use for being lazy.
Friday, July 15, 2011
No One in Here But Us Chickens
I consider myself a fairly brave person. I have been threatened by politicians, swarmed by lust-driven tweens during an appearance by certain "Twilight" cast members, and have faced the hellish inferno that is Black Friday at Target. I may not laugh in the face of danger, but I have no problem talking about it behind its back.
Except for my kryptonite. My eight-legged, soul-sucking kryptonite.
Now, like many a young bride, I assumed that tasks like killing spiders and opening jars should fall on the shoulders of the husband, he who brings home bacon and takes out trash. My husband has no problems with bacon, trash or jar-opening (except for our sugar dispenser, but I think it could best Hercules). But when it comes to spiders, the whole household trembles.
Usually, I can, ahem, remedy the arachnid situation with a little help from the fine people at Swiffer, or in extreme situations, a little hairspray and a golf club. But we've got some brazen beasties that seem to have taken up residence on our back porch, and they merely laugh at our efforts.
After chasing one of them with said golf club until it ran out of clubbing range, we hosed down the back porch with industrial strength spider killer. It didn't kill the spiders, only made them stronger, but I am pretty sure it killed all our plants and somehow broke our hose (or maybe that was due to repeated thrasings with a golf club?). I talked to our loyal Orkin Bob about the situation, and he just laughed. "Oh yeah," he said, "some of those guys can be a real handful." Not helpful, Orkin Bob, and not why I pay you the big bucks.
So now we keep a big stick by the back door. It's on, spiders, it's on.
Except for my kryptonite. My eight-legged, soul-sucking kryptonite.
Now, like many a young bride, I assumed that tasks like killing spiders and opening jars should fall on the shoulders of the husband, he who brings home bacon and takes out trash. My husband has no problems with bacon, trash or jar-opening (except for our sugar dispenser, but I think it could best Hercules). But when it comes to spiders, the whole household trembles.
Usually, I can, ahem, remedy the arachnid situation with a little help from the fine people at Swiffer, or in extreme situations, a little hairspray and a golf club. But we've got some brazen beasties that seem to have taken up residence on our back porch, and they merely laugh at our efforts.
After chasing one of them with said golf club until it ran out of clubbing range, we hosed down the back porch with industrial strength spider killer. It didn't kill the spiders, only made them stronger, but I am pretty sure it killed all our plants and somehow broke our hose (or maybe that was due to repeated thrasings with a golf club?). I talked to our loyal Orkin Bob about the situation, and he just laughed. "Oh yeah," he said, "some of those guys can be a real handful." Not helpful, Orkin Bob, and not why I pay you the big bucks.
So now we keep a big stick by the back door. It's on, spiders, it's on.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
But You Forgot the Magic Word
I need, need, need to stop uttering the phrase "how hard could it be?".
This go-getter attitude has go-gotten me seeking medical attention on more than one occassion (hello, Great Batting Cage Incident of 2009), as well as cost me buttloads of money fixing my attempts at easy home repair (and also got me quite intimately acquainted with the backside of my washer and dryer ... saving that little gem for a later post). It led to a very Marshall Erickson, cool-guy tips freakout in the bathroom in March when I decided if the high-school dropouts at Great Clips can cut blunt bangs, so can I.
But this week, I hit a new low.
Bathing suit season is upon us, and certain, um, preparations need to be made before hitting the pool. Instead of seeking the council of my fair Lady Schick, or paying a professional douse me in hot wax, I simply though, "well, how hard could it be?" and purchased an at-home kit for such personal grooming situations.
Sparing the most intimate of details, let's just say the wax is not sticky enough to be effective, however, wouldn't come off despite fervent, Lady Macbeth-esque scrubbings. Not only did I waste money on the kit, I sacrificed two razor blades, one of the few decent washcloths we have left, half a roll of paper towels and one scrubby kitchen sponge and was still looking like I belonged in Madame Tussaud's.
Lesson learned? Probably not.
This go-getter attitude has go-gotten me seeking medical attention on more than one occassion (hello, Great Batting Cage Incident of 2009), as well as cost me buttloads of money fixing my attempts at easy home repair (and also got me quite intimately acquainted with the backside of my washer and dryer ... saving that little gem for a later post). It led to a very Marshall Erickson, cool-guy tips freakout in the bathroom in March when I decided if the high-school dropouts at Great Clips can cut blunt bangs, so can I.
But this week, I hit a new low.
Bathing suit season is upon us, and certain, um, preparations need to be made before hitting the pool. Instead of seeking the council of my fair Lady Schick, or paying a professional douse me in hot wax, I simply though, "well, how hard could it be?" and purchased an at-home kit for such personal grooming situations.
Sparing the most intimate of details, let's just say the wax is not sticky enough to be effective, however, wouldn't come off despite fervent, Lady Macbeth-esque scrubbings. Not only did I waste money on the kit, I sacrificed two razor blades, one of the few decent washcloths we have left, half a roll of paper towels and one scrubby kitchen sponge and was still looking like I belonged in Madame Tussaud's.
Lesson learned? Probably not.
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