I have had a twitch in my right eye for four days. FOUR DAYS.
That's right, we are approaching a major disaster if something doesn't happen to stop the madness. Soon. Like, NOW.
All day long, it lightly twitches. It isn't the big kind of twitch that other people can see; it's a little tiny one that stops and starts without warning, especially when I'm doing something that I hate, so that I am distracted, stupid, and doubly annoyed at the task.
I may have to wear an eye patch.
I realize that a good deal of my life is spent contemplating the fact that I may have to wear an eye patch one day. I don't think that's weird at all.
I actually sang songs about my eye twitch to 75% of my students yesterday and the day before.
Well, I sing songs about all kinds of stuff to them, mostly because I want them to make stuff up and have some fun in their heads, but this was a little out there. It's all good.
At any rate, I may go a little postal today if this twitch is, in fact, going to be worse than the previous day's twitching, which it is showing signs of being.
Just thought you should know.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Last night, I had the conversation I've been dreaming of, ever since August of 2013. It was everything I dreamed it would be, and a little bit more.
What was it about?
Well, poop, but it's the context that matters.
See, I take a ceramics class. And in that class, we build things out of clay. White clay, grey clay, and, most importantly, brownish clay.
Yep, it's brownish. And smeary.
So, when a person hand-builds or throws with it, it leaves a smeary brown mess all over that person's hands. And I've always wished someone (other than me, because I always have to be the one to bring up poop) would say something about it.
And last night, it happened.
We were sitting at the wheels, and this awesome lady (who was actually awesome before this, but it bumped her up like 50 levels) was using the brownest clay in the place. I looked over and said, "Wow. That really looks like chocolate!" Partially because the clay is actually called chocolate, but also because it looked like poop and it was making me giggle.
She looked over and said, "Yeah, but it looks like poop, too!" And then we laughed about it.
It was like a portal opened up from the heavens and angels were singing. Someone that wasn't me was laughing with me about poop.
I tell you, all was right with the world. For once. Best class ever.
What was it about?
Well, poop, but it's the context that matters.
See, I take a ceramics class. And in that class, we build things out of clay. White clay, grey clay, and, most importantly, brownish clay.
Yep, it's brownish. And smeary.
So, when a person hand-builds or throws with it, it leaves a smeary brown mess all over that person's hands. And I've always wished someone (other than me, because I always have to be the one to bring up poop) would say something about it.
And last night, it happened.
We were sitting at the wheels, and this awesome lady (who was actually awesome before this, but it bumped her up like 50 levels) was using the brownest clay in the place. I looked over and said, "Wow. That really looks like chocolate!" Partially because the clay is actually called chocolate, but also because it looked like poop and it was making me giggle.
She looked over and said, "Yeah, but it looks like poop, too!" And then we laughed about it.
It was like a portal opened up from the heavens and angels were singing. Someone that wasn't me was laughing with me about poop.
I tell you, all was right with the world. For once. Best class ever.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Warning: This is going to be one of those braggy, food-picture posts, so if you hate that, better leave now. Because, well, because it's important.
Lately, I have been cooking a ton of soup and stuff. Why? Because it's finally cold enough, and also, soup is rarely over 400 calories a bowl, even if it's got delicious things in it, like cheese. I also have this fantastic Le Creuset pot that makes me feel all fancy while I'm cooking so, there you go.
First, I made cauliflower soup. This was around Thanksgiving, and I think it was in my top 3, even though it didn't photograph well at all. Those are not frog legs on top; it's browned butter and crispy cauliflower florets. FAAAANCY!!
Then, I tried Brussels sprout soup, and it was good, too, but the texture was weird. No fancy drizzle on this one.
Over the holidays, I made pecan pies like crazy, and I also did a butter cake for New Year's.
This year, I tried one of those copycat recipes for Olive Garden's Chicken and Gnocchi Soup, which came out amazingly well, even without any actual chicken, since I'm not eating meat.
And I just spent the weekend making pie stuff, like a lemon meringue for my sick mom, mini chocolate ones for the rest of us, and homemade Pop-Tarts because all of those chemicals make me nervous.
And finally, to cap off the weekend, I made a spinach, tomato and basil gnocchi soup!
Of course, all of the really good photos were taken by my Dad, and most of mine actually made the food look kind of gross. But still.
I did so many dishes, but it's been a great couple of months for food up in my house!
I told you it was going to be braggy and full of food pictures. What did you expect? Geeeeeez.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Just before Christmas, I had a great day that was almost perfect.
And then, I tried to do something positive.
My husband and I were driving around the city, and I noticed a guy standing on a corner with a sign theat said, "Homeless...hungry...I'd rather beg than steal."
I thought,"Wow! I have this kit in my backseat that has all sorts of food and stuff that I've been keeping back there to give to somebody who looks like he might needs it. Yay!"
So we pull up alongside the guy and I say, "Here you go! Have a wonderful holiday."
He looks at me, looks at the bag, then looks back at me and says, "I don't want this. I don't need this stuff." all crusty, like I was being rude. And he gives the bag back.
Yep.
So I felt douchey.
And I still have the bag in my backseat because I'm too scared to try again.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
My blog has almost had 15,000 views. I realize that to some this may not seem like a big number, but I really think it is. Mostly because, as I've said, this is totally just crap that pops into my head at 5 am.
Nevertheless, I've decided to make a haiku in honor of the vast number of people who are reading my blog.
VAST.
That word is fun.
Anyway, here goes...
Nevertheless, I've decided to make a haiku in honor of the vast number of people who are reading my blog.
VAST.
That word is fun.
Anyway, here goes...
thoughts stream like water
from my head to the keyboard
it's crap, you read it
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Haikus are fun. Also, I know it's probably not a proper haiku, but I don't care because it makes me giggle. At any rate, I hope I can come up with enough mindless junk to write five billion more posts.
Also, here are some balloons. Happy 15,000 views, me!
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Let's all just consider this post a Public Service Announcement, shall we? Because, well, you'll see. I learned a lesson yesterday, and I felt like I needed to pass it along, no matter how embarrassing it is to me.
So I had to go see the lady doctor yesterday. She is also a lady doctor, but I don't refer to her as a lady doctor because of her gender. She looks at ladies and their bits.
AS you may have guessed, I am not very good at just callings things by their proper names. This actually has something to do with my story.
At any rate, I had to call and make the appointment, which was embarrassing enough because I had to describe the problem to a receptionist, and then I had to go in and see the doctor for something which was completely avoidable and actually caused by an allergy to fabric softener.
But that is neither here nor there.
I got in and was taken to the back, where I had to explain the issue to a nurse. "It's been going on for about two months." I said.
"WHAT?" she said.
Yep, I let these things go a while, probably because I don't enjoy talking about my lady bits. Then she started asking questions, using scientific words for body parts.
That's right around the time I turned red and started giggling. I firmly believe in using fun words to talk about the Southern regions. Like hoo-hoo or noonie. Or talking about it as if it were a geological phenomenon, rather than a physical one, using the points of the compass as a reference.
At any rate, I feel like the nurse just didn't get me.
She then told me to disrobe from the waist down and sit up on the table, and then left. So I'm sitting there, in my full Donald Duck regalia, for around 15 minutes. That doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're sitting there with your business barely covered by a thin sheet and you're trying to gauge how much time it would take you to grab your pants and shoes in an emergency, and trying to decide which you'd get if there was a fire (don't worry, I had on a really long shirt....I totally would've gone for shoes), it seems like forever.
Finally, the doctor came in and asked me to describe my symptoms. However, I was still in my Donald Duck outfit and kind of a giggly mess, and I developed a mental block.
It's not that I don't know the proper terms for things down there. Let's be quite clear on that. I do know what's going on below my equator. I just prefer to not ever, ever, ever, ever say the right words because they are icky and I blush heavily if I ever say them.
So we have our discussion and she then has me lay down so she can do an exam. Ladies, you know how this goes. It is, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable position one can be in, plus someone is prodding around down there, trying to have a normal conversation while he or she has his hand all up in your whatnot.
This is the point where I feel like I lost all street cred with my doctor.
She's asking me if it hurts in certain places and she gets to the...well...upper area and says, "How about here?"
Now, I should've just said no and let her move on. But I had to be an idiot, so I said, "You mean the sticky-outy part?"
I'll give you a minute.
Yes, yes, yes, yes. I know. I KNOW. I just couldn't bring myself to say it. At any rate, the doctor straightens up and looks at me and says, "That sticky-outy part is called a (I'll let you fill in the blank for yourself, I still can't say it)." And then she laughed a little bit.
She said it as if I didn't know the word.
I'm pretty sure she left the room and laughed a little more. Or even a lot more. I just pulled up my drawers and hightailed it to my car.
Where I called my husband and told him my story, so he could laugh, too.
And he did.
Ugh.
The lesson I learned? Use grown-up words or your doctor will laugh at you. Also, always wear a long shirt to the lady doctor because if there's a fire, you'll be able to run out of the building faster if you have your shoes than all of those suckers who decide to go with pants.
So I had to go see the lady doctor yesterday. She is also a lady doctor, but I don't refer to her as a lady doctor because of her gender. She looks at ladies and their bits.
AS you may have guessed, I am not very good at just callings things by their proper names. This actually has something to do with my story.
At any rate, I had to call and make the appointment, which was embarrassing enough because I had to describe the problem to a receptionist, and then I had to go in and see the doctor for something which was completely avoidable and actually caused by an allergy to fabric softener.
But that is neither here nor there.
I got in and was taken to the back, where I had to explain the issue to a nurse. "It's been going on for about two months." I said.
"WHAT?" she said.
Yep, I let these things go a while, probably because I don't enjoy talking about my lady bits. Then she started asking questions, using scientific words for body parts.
That's right around the time I turned red and started giggling. I firmly believe in using fun words to talk about the Southern regions. Like hoo-hoo or noonie. Or talking about it as if it were a geological phenomenon, rather than a physical one, using the points of the compass as a reference.
At any rate, I feel like the nurse just didn't get me.
She then told me to disrobe from the waist down and sit up on the table, and then left. So I'm sitting there, in my full Donald Duck regalia, for around 15 minutes. That doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're sitting there with your business barely covered by a thin sheet and you're trying to gauge how much time it would take you to grab your pants and shoes in an emergency, and trying to decide which you'd get if there was a fire (don't worry, I had on a really long shirt....I totally would've gone for shoes), it seems like forever.
Finally, the doctor came in and asked me to describe my symptoms. However, I was still in my Donald Duck outfit and kind of a giggly mess, and I developed a mental block.
It's not that I don't know the proper terms for things down there. Let's be quite clear on that. I do know what's going on below my equator. I just prefer to not ever, ever, ever, ever say the right words because they are icky and I blush heavily if I ever say them.
So we have our discussion and she then has me lay down so she can do an exam. Ladies, you know how this goes. It is, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable position one can be in, plus someone is prodding around down there, trying to have a normal conversation while he or she has his hand all up in your whatnot.
This is the point where I feel like I lost all street cred with my doctor.
She's asking me if it hurts in certain places and she gets to the...well...upper area and says, "How about here?"
Now, I should've just said no and let her move on. But I had to be an idiot, so I said, "You mean the sticky-outy part?"
I'll give you a minute.
Yes, yes, yes, yes. I know. I KNOW. I just couldn't bring myself to say it. At any rate, the doctor straightens up and looks at me and says, "That sticky-outy part is called a (I'll let you fill in the blank for yourself, I still can't say it)." And then she laughed a little bit.
She said it as if I didn't know the word.
I'm pretty sure she left the room and laughed a little more. Or even a lot more. I just pulled up my drawers and hightailed it to my car.
Where I called my husband and told him my story, so he could laugh, too.
And he did.
Ugh.
The lesson I learned? Use grown-up words or your doctor will laugh at you. Also, always wear a long shirt to the lady doctor because if there's a fire, you'll be able to run out of the building faster if you have your shoes than all of those suckers who decide to go with pants.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
So I have to write a little about Nancy Drew books, because I've been reading them for the last couple of months. I have around 50 of them and I can read one in a couple of nights, if it doesn't make me fall asleep immediately, which it usually does, so I've gone through almost all of them and I've discovered a few things.
First of all, they are a great book to read right before going to sleep. They are easy and soothing and pleasant. Always pleasant. And nothing exciting enough to keep me turning the pages is contained therein, so it's not going to keep me up any longer than I want it to. There are also frequent references to slacks and pantsuits, and that makes me giggle.
Secondly, the illustrations are just a lie. Those cover illustrations were so scary that when I was a kid, I couldn't actually read the Nancy Drew books, because I was too scared of all of that spookiness. They are just not spooky. At all. Not even a little. I wasted all of that time being freaked out for nothing.
Finally, I want to know if anyone ever did a CT scan on Nancy (or Ned or George or even Bess, for that matter). She is still eighteen years old, so all this has happened in less than a year, and I swear that she has been hit in the head or drugged with some mystery cocktail that is probably ether and/or roofies at least once in each book. That's a lot of head trauma and drugs. Also, Carson Drew might want to think about moving to a safer neighborhood, because their house gets broken into pretty much every time Nancy's on a case. That sounds a little ghetto for such an uptight family. I think it's time to look into a safer neighborhood, guys.
Really, all I can think about at this point is that if Nancy was, indeed, real, she'd be old right now, probably with nerve damage and head trauma from all of the injuries she sustained working on these cases, and no money, because she totally did it all for fun instead of going to college, and Ned Nickerson must've divorced her because he got tired of being dragged into all of her shenanigans and there's no way he could afford to support that expensive habit, being a camp counselor and whatnot.
I'm guessing that, if Nancy was real and still alive, she'd be a very sad old lady in constant pain, living in some kind of state-run home because she can't take care of herself since her brain could not possibly function properly after all of that. And that is terribly sad.
Sorry, Nancy Drew. That's just how my brain works.
First of all, they are a great book to read right before going to sleep. They are easy and soothing and pleasant. Always pleasant. And nothing exciting enough to keep me turning the pages is contained therein, so it's not going to keep me up any longer than I want it to. There are also frequent references to slacks and pantsuits, and that makes me giggle.
Secondly, the illustrations are just a lie. Those cover illustrations were so scary that when I was a kid, I couldn't actually read the Nancy Drew books, because I was too scared of all of that spookiness. They are just not spooky. At all. Not even a little. I wasted all of that time being freaked out for nothing.
Finally, I want to know if anyone ever did a CT scan on Nancy (or Ned or George or even Bess, for that matter). She is still eighteen years old, so all this has happened in less than a year, and I swear that she has been hit in the head or drugged with some mystery cocktail that is probably ether and/or roofies at least once in each book. That's a lot of head trauma and drugs. Also, Carson Drew might want to think about moving to a safer neighborhood, because their house gets broken into pretty much every time Nancy's on a case. That sounds a little ghetto for such an uptight family. I think it's time to look into a safer neighborhood, guys.
Really, all I can think about at this point is that if Nancy was, indeed, real, she'd be old right now, probably with nerve damage and head trauma from all of the injuries she sustained working on these cases, and no money, because she totally did it all for fun instead of going to college, and Ned Nickerson must've divorced her because he got tired of being dragged into all of her shenanigans and there's no way he could afford to support that expensive habit, being a camp counselor and whatnot.
I'm guessing that, if Nancy was real and still alive, she'd be a very sad old lady in constant pain, living in some kind of state-run home because she can't take care of herself since her brain could not possibly function properly after all of that. And that is terribly sad.
Sorry, Nancy Drew. That's just how my brain works.
Friday, January 2, 2015
First post of 2015. Aren't you lucky?
Actually, this year has been pretty great so far. I didn't have to work yesterday, which is delightful, and I got to spend the whole day hanging out with my husband, crocheting and doing absolutely nothing except walking on the treadmill so I could justify a piece of cake later.
Which I had. And it was delicious.
At any rate, I'm really hoping 2015 is better. I'm not asking for the moon, I would just love to have a year without hospitalizations. That would pretty much be my bucket list for this one.
I would also like to lose that last 40 pounds or so, but I'm not holding my breath. We have, however taken steps toward not gaining any weight: We bought a scale and put it right outside the bathroom so we can weigh ourselves every morning. I don't know if it works or not, since it's been all holiday timey and whatnot, but I know for sure that I'm actually down since Thanksgiving, so I'll take it.
Also, I have a new mug to take to work today, so I'm pretty excited about that. Oh, and my Christmas shirt and scarf from my husband. Those, too.
So, actually, even though I have to go into work today while my husband and (it feels like) everyone else in the world gets to sleep in, it should be a pretty decent day.
We'll see. I haven't put on my bad attitude yet, so that might change a few things.
Actually, this year has been pretty great so far. I didn't have to work yesterday, which is delightful, and I got to spend the whole day hanging out with my husband, crocheting and doing absolutely nothing except walking on the treadmill so I could justify a piece of cake later.
Which I had. And it was delicious.
At any rate, I'm really hoping 2015 is better. I'm not asking for the moon, I would just love to have a year without hospitalizations. That would pretty much be my bucket list for this one.
I would also like to lose that last 40 pounds or so, but I'm not holding my breath. We have, however taken steps toward not gaining any weight: We bought a scale and put it right outside the bathroom so we can weigh ourselves every morning. I don't know if it works or not, since it's been all holiday timey and whatnot, but I know for sure that I'm actually down since Thanksgiving, so I'll take it.
Also, I have a new mug to take to work today, so I'm pretty excited about that. Oh, and my Christmas shirt and scarf from my husband. Those, too.
So, actually, even though I have to go into work today while my husband and (it feels like) everyone else in the world gets to sleep in, it should be a pretty decent day.
We'll see. I haven't put on my bad attitude yet, so that might change a few things.
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