Operation Pink Herring

Dude, where's my UPS box?

I had my first wedding-related nightmare last night.  (I say "first" because I'm sure there will be more... worrying, it's what I do.  Even in my sleep.) 

In the dream, we were apparently having our wedding in some sort of island destination.  My family and friends all went out to this island about a week before the wedding and we were having a great time until I suddenly realized that the wedding was the next day and holy shit, I'd forgotten to do everything that I was supposed to do during that week. 

First, I realized that I'd never ordered any wedding bands, and I sent Joel off to find something we could use for the ceremony in a one of the local shops.  Then I started running around the island looking for florists and photographers when my mom reminded me that the dress was still way too long - I'd never had it hemmed.  I ran and found a tailor who said she'd happily fix it that same day... for $1,000.  The flower ladies were spouting on about some island rock (yes, rock) had made traditional bouquets impossible BUT they could do this weird thing with rope instead when my two friends came back with long faces on.  The local butcher had no idea how to cut up the wild hog I'd brought for the wedding feast (I finished Omnivore's Dilemma, in case you couldn't tell), they said.  We'd have to find a caterer instead.  Joel came back, saying he couldn't find anything but a pair of gold hoop earrings for us to use for the ceremony, and at that moment I realize that I had never found an officiant.

This whole time someone (who shall remain nameless because I know she would never do this in real life) was laughing.  Just as I was screaming "this isn't funny, STOP LAUGHING AND HELP ME!" I woke up and realized that I was mega-late for work.

See, I told you.  Breaking Point!  Officially reached!

In other news, I cannot find my car.  I was going to drive to work this morning so I could go to the grocery store after work, but car = missing.   Does anyone know where I parked my car?  Black Jetta covered in pigeon poop?  Anyone?

Lastly, I came home last night to find a note from UPS saying that they'd left a package my brother had shipped here with some last-minute stuff for his bike trip "BY FLOWERS -->".  I looked in in the shrub that the United States Postal Service so enjoys abusing, but there was no box to be found.  Someone stole it, which isn't all that surprising since UPS basically left a nice shiny box on the sidewalk on our heavily foot-trafficked street.  I am officially adding "mailbox" to the list of requirements for our next house, right after "closets", "designated parking", and "more closets". 

A stern talking-to

I thought that we had an understanding, but I'm so deeply disappointed in your behavior today that I can't even muster an appropriate response.  Passive-aggressively staying in bed until 7:50 and carrying a grumpy attitude around all day is a start, but we haven't even begun to scratch the surface of my disillusionment. 

The rules we set out were clear: I would muddle through winter as best I could, holding my complaints about the weather and the cold and the dry skin to a minimum.  You would, in return, supply at least one day off from work between the months of December and February.  Preferably the storm would be big enough to justify staying in the house all day, wearing pajamas and sitting on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate.   

Things were going well.  Today was to be the agreed upon Snow Day, and I had plans of scrapbooking, working through the Tivo cash, cleaning, and maybe even sleeping in.   

And then you went and raised the temperature just a few degrees.  And the snow turned to rain.  And everything was ruined.

I don't know how we're going to handle this, young lady.  When I think of an appropriate punishment we'll sit down and talk about how you can earn back your privileges.  Until then, I don't want to hear a peep out of you. No -- don't even say it -- not a single temperature under 40 degrees.  Don't even ask about using the phone.  February is over as far as I'm concerned.  Bring on March and spring and even the oppressive humidity of July.  I'm done with you, winter.  Done.  This conversation is over. I expected more from you. Now go to your room and think about what you've done.

 

Weekend recap, posted on a Monday! Imagine that.

This weekend was lovely.  I did a million errands, vacuumed the whole house, crossed things off my to-do list left and right.  When I woke up on Saturday morning to get to my 9am hair appointment, the air was crisp and cool and by god, it felt like fall.  It felt wonderful.

After my appointment, I picked up our new video camera at Fedex (more on that later), picked up my truffle brown shoes at David's Bridal, went to Walmart for an oil change, got reject by Walmart because my car has an oil leak (they were not swayed my my "I know it has an oil leak, what does that have to do with changing the oil?" logic), took my car to the MVA for its biannual emissions inspection, ignored the signs that said not to have your emissions inspected if your car is leaking oil BECAUSE YOU WILL FAIL, passed the emissions inspection while simultaneously leaking oil, and made it home in time for some lunch before we headed out to peruse the annual neighborhood flea market in the park. 

I am not kidding at all when I say that these are my favorite kinds of weekends.

Only one thing threatened to spoil my weekend of productivity: IKEA.  Evil, evil Ikea.   

I have some issues with Ikea, mostly relating to their penchant for selling me lovely items for my home at a reasonable price, making me fall in love with said items, and then immediately discontinuing them.  For instance, we bought some delightful magazine holders that saved my relationship with Joel.  Joel enjoys saving every back issue of each of the four magazines he subscribes to, just in case he might ever desire to go back and look something up in the May 2003 issue of Men's Journal.  I, on the other hand, become extremely agitated when things look messy.  It's a disease, it's a neurosis, it's whatever you want to call it.  Clutter makes me nervous.  We used to have a conversation daily that went something like this:

Me: Are you done reading this four-month old copy of Rowing News? 

Joel: No, I haven't finished reading it.

Me: Well, when are you going to read it?  It's four months old.

Joel: I don't know.

Me: I'm throwing it out.

Joel: No, I want to keep it.

Me: WHY?  YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO READ IT! OMG!

Then we went to Ikea and found these adorably sheik magazine holders that completely solved the problem.  Joel got to keep his magazines, I got to sort them by date and file them away.  The colorful spines actually look nice on our bookcase!  Joy to the world.  In fact, I loved them so much that I went back to buy more.

Can you guess what happens next?  Ikea stopped making them, of course!  The ones we bought were very similar to this:

Except the ones we got are a different sheen of black, and are designed to have the spines of the magazines facing out, while the new versions are designed to have the back of the file facing out.  Ugly cheap Ikea-fasteners are on the other side.

This probably sounds like the most insignificant gripe you've ever heard.   I'm sure I could buy the different sheen of black and have the fasteners facing out and no one would notice.  BUT I WOULD KNOW.   And it would drive me insane.

Many moons ago, Joel and I re-did our living room, complete with a new bookcase/entertainment system, the design of which we agonized over for weeks.  The final plan we devised to maximize storage space and minimize cost consisted of three bookcases, a TV stand, and two bridging shelves to tie it all together.  When we went to Ikea to buy all the supplies, the bridging shelves were out of stock, so we decided to come back for those another day.

We were so naive.   

When I wrote about this back in May, I was frustrated but hopeful.  I called Ikea faithfully every Friday to check if those damn shelves were back in stock, and every Friday they told me they were still out of stock, with no ship date listed, but don't worry!  They're not discontinued.  In fact, we have some in birch that you can pick up right now, if you'd like.  Then I'd explain that birch shelves don't help me because our entire system is dark brown, and they'd tell me to call back in a week or two.  Which I did.  For months. 

Finally, when the 2008 catalog came, there were new! shelving! options!  In dark brown!  In the exact length we needed!  Screw the old shelves, in with the new.  Even though the new shelves cost $50 each, while the ones we originally wanted were only $14.99.

So we got the shelves home.  We tried to hang them, and HOLY HELL they were heavy.  One of us had to stand underneath like Hercules, holding up the shelf (at the right height) (and level), while the other stood on a stool to try to screw it into the wall.

Guess what!  The shelves are actually an inch longer than the specs said they were.  No problem, Joel will just move one of the bookcases over an inch! 

Guess what!  The studs in the wall don't line up with the pre-drilled holes.  No problem, we'll (and by we, I mean Joel) drill new holes. 

Guess what! The screws that came with the shelves are not long enough.  No problem, we'll go to the Home Depot for new screws.

In the meantime, the shelves can just sit in the living room.  And serve as a cat condo.

I declared that come hell or high water, those shelves were getting attached to the walls this weekend.  There was much angst, much cursing of all things Swedish, and my arms are SORE.  But the bottom line is: Joel is my hero, the shelves are up, and WE WIN.  TAKE THAT, IKEA.

I before E, except after C

Here I am, innocently watching my Yahoo!LAUNCHcastTM video player, wondering why my "personalized" video station insists on airing videos by Akon.  You don't know me at all, Yahoo.  You just don't love me like Tivo does.

This new song, which is eloquently titled "Sorry, Blame it on Me" begins innocently enough, at least he's not crooning about all the Beeyootiful Girls who will break his heart.  Oh, look, it's a nice letter he wrote to his momma telling her he loves her.  That's sweet.

And it's signed "You're son, Akon"

**SPLAT**

Oh, sorry, that was just my head exploding all over your screen.  Blame it all on me.  The  mess, I mean.  I take no responsibility for the fact that Akon, his agent, his producer, his mother, and his video girlfriend with the cute Vera Bradley bag all failed fourth grade English.

And I just watched the beginning three more time just to make sure.  It says "you're".

Someone please kill me.  Preferably not by this method, though.   (See THAT'S why I have a mortal fear of Arizona.  If the producers of Mrs. America had only thought to consult  me, I would have told them that this was an accident waiting to happen.  I hope they're shaking out the sheets for scorpions.

I mean, I hope there shaking out they're sheets.  Sorry, blame it all on me.)

Happy Labor Day, internet.  Here's to hoping you're not assaulted by any offensive grammar.

Edited to add: No offense intended toward the fine citizens of Delaware

As we were driving to New Jersey on Saturday morning to attend an engagement party, I had the occasion to take special notice of the road signs along the way.  I'd like to thank the massive traffic on Route 95 for this rare opportunity.  Really, 95 went out of its way to make this trip memorable by first planting a massive traffic jam just south of the Maryland border and then following up with the requisite senseless Delaware backups.  When we finally got to the party, after FIVE AND A HALF hours of driving, we learned that someone else coming from Baltimore had just turned around and gone home after two hours.  That at least made Joel feel less bad for asking if it was possible to un-RSVP to a party.

On the way up, I surprised at how nice some of the signage was.  I'd never noticed this before, but is there a new school of thought relating to the psychology of road signs?  There was a sign that said "Please do not discard litter", and another saying "Buckle up!  We CARE!"  When we exited the NJ Turnpike, there was a sign asking us very politely to obey posted local speed limits.

Um, hello?  Isn't that sort of common sense?  I think the sign makers are thinking way too much about this.  I have designed a new sign that could replace all of these.  Enough with the "Please don't speed," "Keep a safe following distance", and "Don't throw your crap on the road".  Let's just get right down to it:

And while I'm doing the sign-makers' jobs for them, I'd like to suggest a few revisions to the iconic Delaware sign, too.  I mean, this does not really capture the true spirit of The First State:

This would be much more useful to travelers:

   

*Edited to add:  I mean no offense to the state of Delaware, its residents, or their pets.  Seriously.  I know that when people say "no offense," it usually just means "I'm about to say something really offensive", but I have no hard feelings for anyone or anything in Delaware, except for that particular 15-mile stretch of 95. 

**In fact, I've almost become fond of the Delaware traffic: it's dependable and reliable, and those are good qualities to have.  And by calling it "Delaware traffic", I just meant the traffic in Delaware, not the traffic caused by Delawarians. 

***You know who I am not fond of?  The guy in front of me who got in the EZPASS lane but did not have an EZPASS.  And instead of just running the damn toll like a normal person, he GOT OUT OF HIS CAR, crossed two lanes of traffic, and tried to pay the attendant at another booth.  He was an idiot, but I think he had Kentucky plates. 

****Nothing against Kentucky, either!  I've never even been there!  I'm sure it's very nice!  I hear they make great fried chicken!

*****Please don't kill me.

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For those of you who inquired about the cookie recipe, it's right here.

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I really do plan on posting about our vacation soon.  Seriously.   Right after I get back from spray painting that Delaware sign.

Email is good because it doesn't require talking to people

You know what I love?  I love it when the phone rings, and unable to muster up the energy to actually talk to someone, I let it go to voicemail -- and then when I check the message immediately afterwards, there's nothing but a click. 

No, really.  I love it when someone calls me, and then hangs up on my voicemail.  It makes me feel like I've won.  Ha ha, caller person whose number I didn't recognize! (Or maybe I did recognize it, and I just really, really didn't want to talk to you, specifically!  You'll never know.) You wanted to talk to me, but I evaded you.  And instead of putting "Call Person Back" on my To Do List, I now am freed from the responsibility of taking any action at all.  I win.

Thank you, mystery caller with the 205 area code who just called me TWICE and hung up on my voicemail.  You just made my day.  Guess it wasn't all that important, huh?

Another reason to shop at Sam's Club, besides the free samples

On Saturday, Joel and I went to the yuppie grocery store to pick up a few very specific items.  I am trying my very best to resist the ingrained urge to buy things in bulk, since we are leaving on vacation in 4 days (!) and there is no way we will consume 6 avocados, two pounds of turkey, a giant block of cheddar cheese before then.  We were determined to stick to the list: cat litter, apples, pasta sauce, and a ream of paper for me to write one of my characteristic insane notes for the petsitter on.  My record is three pages (front and back), but we have a whole extra cat this year so I'm aiming high.  Better crazy than sorry, that's what I say. 

We made it through the yuppie Safeway in record time and pulled our cart over to the aisle with the shortest line.  Since Saturday night isn't exactly prime time for grocery shopping, there were only a few lanes open.  When I peered down the aisle to gague how much stuff the people in front of us were buying (and therefore how much time I had to read US Weekly), my eyes locked with the cashier's.   My heart sank a little when I recognized her as Inappropriate Comment Cashier Lady, and I cursed my luck. 

I'm not sure what kind of training Safeway gives its cashiers, but I'd assume that they give them an overview of the basic skills -- how to operate the register, how to call for an override, and the like.  Apparently, they also instruct their cashiers that it is OK to comment on each and every item a customer is purchasing, and ICCL graduated from this part of the course with high honors.  As soon as the customer in front of us finished counting out twelve dollars and thirteen cents in change (I'm not kidding -- the Coinstar was broken, so he decided to simply pay his grocery bill in nickels, dimes, and pennies), the real fun began.  As she scanned my bag of cat food, she looked at me and asked my how many cats I had.   After shooting Joel a look to say "Here we go, feel free to jump in and kill me at any time!", I replied that we had three cats. 

"Oh, wow!" she exclaimed, and without missing a beat, added "we just had to put down my mom's last cat in June."

"Oh, that's sad", I said, trying to sound sincere (for the record -- the first time she told me this story, I was honestly sad for her.  But after you hear the same story, word for word, three times, it stops pulling at your heart strings).

"Yeah, but it was her time to go.  She was thirteen, poor thing could hardly jump up on the bed anymore."

"You don't say." [trying with all my might to keep a straight face, while Joel concentrates fully on loading our other purchases onto the belt]

"Yeah, but it was real sad.  June 13th was when she went."

"I'm very sorry," I said, as she scanned our next item -- two packets of guacamole mix, which warranted the comment, "MMMM!  Guacamole!"

The apples and a few other things made it through the scanner comment-free, but then we got to the cards.  Joel had picked out a birthday card for this mother, and I had taken the opportunity to buy a long overdue engagement card for a friend of mine, along with several wedding cards for the upcoming nuptials-filled year.  "Oooh, looks like everybody's getting married!" she exclaimed, giving me a knowing glance.  I'm not sure what the knowing glance was supposed to mean, did she think I was buying wedding cards for myself, perhaps?  Is that the new passive-aggressive method for trying to get your boyfriend to propose?  We will never know, because I swiped my credit card and high tailed it to the parking lot so that I could burst out laughing.

"That was the fourth time she told me about the dead cat," I told Joel.  "THE. FOURTH. TIME.  How many times do you think she tells that story every day?  Does she tell everyone about her mom's dead cat, or does the 20-lb bag of cat food give me special status?"

While these comments are pretty harmless, it troubles me to wonder what she would say if I were buying anything a tad more... personal.  Like, what happens when I need to stock up on tampons?  Is she going to announce to the whole store, "Oh boy, looks like someone's going to be cranky for the next few days [wink, wink]"?  And since my family reads this site, I'll stop there -- but can you imagine the awkward factor that certain purchases from the family planning aisle could illicit?

On our drive home, I started to speculate about possible responses I could give the next time I make a cat-related purchase (which is pretty much on every single trip, in case you were wondering) and she asks me the inevitable How-Many-Do-You-Have question.  "Next time, I'm going to tell her I have twenty seven cats, and see what she has to say to that," I told Joel.  "No, better yet, I'm going to say, 'None. Why do you ask?' "

"You should tell her you feed the cat food to your dog, because that's what he prefers," Joel suggested.

"I'm going to tell her that it's for my Brazilian baboon.  And he specifically requests Iams Original Flavored with Chicken.  You know, in sign language."

"You should tell her you just keep it around in case we run out of snacks.  And that it really does taste like chicken."

The chances that I'll actually have the guts to deliver any of these lines the next time I get stuck with Inappropriate Comment Cashier Lady?  Close to zero.  But if they weren't so expensive, I would totally throw a few packs of adult diapers and a pack of Monistat-3, just to see what she would say.

Nice guys arrive first

Sometimes I really wish I weren't so nice.  There are situations where I think it would really be beneficial to be the type of person who can really ream someone out.  Situations like this morning, for example.  I arrived on time for a meeting (yes, it's Saturday), only to find the meeting room suspiciously empty.  After checking with the hotel staff, the hotel meetings board, and my email to confirm that I was in fact in the correct place at the correct time, I was at a total loss.  Did I make this meeting up?  Am I sitting in a freezing cold meeting room, wearing a suit, at 7:30 am on a Saturday for no reason?  Is this just a bad dream?  There is breakfast set up, but no coffee... so, technically, it's more like a nightmare.  My first response is always to think that I made some kind of mistake, maybe I'm at the wrong hotel, maybe the meeting is actually next week, maybe it was 7:30pm instead of 7:30am.  Maybe I read the clock wrong.  All of these things have happened to me at some point, sadly. 

But no, slowly the meeting participants start to trickle in.  Coffee is set up.  This thing is going to take place.

Ah! The mystery is solved.  The other meeting participants decided at dinner last night that 7:30am (on a Saturday, in case I haven't mentioned it) is far too early to hold a meeting, and convinced the meeting planner to push back the start time by an hour.  Super!  I concur!  Splendid idea!  Bless your hearts.

Would have been nice if someone had informed me, though.

I'm just saying.

Especially because if I had arrived at 8:30, instead of 7:30 (am) (on a Saturday) (in a suit), I would have missed the kind gentleman in the parking garage this morning who stared creepily at me while I parked my car and packed my laptop in my purse, creeping me out so much that I felt compelled to take the faceplate off my CD player, lock it in the glovebox, and put the club on my car.  If I had been an hour later, he wouldn't have had the opportunity to approach me spewing a diatribe about having no fear in life, replacing fear with love, and allowing only pure love into my heart. 

That's not fear in my heart, buddy.  It's rage.  Which I will do nothing about, because I'm passive-aggressive like that.  Plus, it's too early in the morning (on a Saturday) to string words together and complain in a coherent fashion that this is news that would have been useful to me YESTERDAY.