4 out of 5 Felons Prefer It

Sorry folks, it's been a slow week, and I've been lazy. I do not, however, want to end the weekend without an anecdote, and this one's had me giggling since last night.

As it so happens, my husband, my roommate and I developed a strong craving for ice cream last night. As it also happens, we live just five or six houses down from a United Dairy Farmers (for those of you who do not live in the Midwest, think '7-11 Meets Baskin Robbins'. Great place, but annoying sometimes when you're trying to pay for gas and a fountain drink and have to wait 15 minutes because the clerk is working the ice cream shop for other customers). Though it was very cold outside and we were three very lazy adults, we had a house full of small people that we can give orders to. Woo!

We called over the resident teenager, Christopher, and gave him money to make the trip for us, with the assurance that he could buy for everyone. As we all began to give him our individual pint orders, complete with second choices in case certain flavors were unavailable, the boy wisely decided to start writing a list. The boy is a smart kid generally....but an abysmal speller. We razzed him a bit as he wrote, and he took it with good humor.

When his list was completed, I took it and scanned it over to make sure everyone's order was correct. What I discovered on the list had everyone in the room in fits of laughter, including Christopher.

My roommate's first choice for ice cream was Mint Chocolit Chip. Okay.

His second choice....was Chokies and Crime.

Word to the Wise

If you are my roommate's 14-year-old son, and you have had your computer taken away for misuse and poor grades...do not enter my private office area (the one you've been told to stay out of, the one with the sign that says "No"), and use my private computer to access your MySpace profile.

Alternatively, if you are said 14-year-old and you do use my personal private computer in my personal private office area to access your MySpace profile, have the good sense to log yourself out and cover your tracks.

I knew someone had been in my office over the last week or so, as my monitor was occasionally turned off at the actual switch rather than allowed to power down on its own after 10 minutes as I tend to do. I didn't think too much about it until I attempted to log on to MySpace earlier today to contact a friend whose e-mail address I had forgotten. I'm not a big fan of MySpace, but it does have its uses.

Surprising - I was apparently already logged in. More surprising - "my" mailbox was full of recently read and replied to messages from emo teenage girls in black makeup, girls whose motto space contained nuggets of wisdom like "the world sux and im wating for it to end".

It didn't take me long to surmise what had happened. And it didn't take long for my annoyance to turn to amusement.

I have now set the screensaver to return to my password-protected Welcome screen after I've walked away for longer than three minutes.

And said emo boy now listens to Celine Dion, does Reiki healing, raises miniature Poodles, and idolizes President Bush.

Game, set, match.

My Goose is Tooked!

Missing: Cement Lawn Goose
Age: 14
Name: Jenny
Last Seen Wearing: Santa suit

Folks, today is a momentous day, as yet another chapter of my youth comes to an oddly appropriate close. And so today I shall tell you the epic tale of Jenny, the Decapitated-Recapitated Goose...also known in days of yore as The Hot Goose.

Her saga begins years ago, in the women's dormitory where I was attending college. A couple of girls in the dorm two rooms down from me got quite sozzled one night, and in an evening of debauched shenanigans came home with one of those delightfully kitschy cement lawn geese, which they had stolen from someone's front yard. How a couple of 95-pound underage drunk girls successfully made off with a 65 pound chunk of tacky yard art without attracting attention is beyond me, but it must have been quite a sight. It sat in their dorm room for the rest of the school year; then as the semester wound down and they faced the impossibility of carrying such a trinket home by airplane, they gave it to my boyfriend. Who in turn...gave it to his mom as a gift.

His mother was more touched by her son's gift that we ever anticipated. She put it in her front lawn and even bought it clothes. A bikini for summer. A little raincoat and umbrella in April. A Halloween costume, and even a Santa suit. I couldn't help but giggle every time I saw her doting on what my boyfriend and I had privately dubbed the Hot Goose.

Years later, I happened to be living two houses down from her and I saw the goose in her trash, headless. It had simply grown so old it crumbled, I guess. But I was loath to see that odd little trifle of my college days disappear just yet, so I took it home and fashioned it a pretty passable head from papier mache, and once it was dried and matched to the body with a few layers of glossy white she looked great. I tied a green ribbon around her neck and redubbed her Jenny, an homage to the silly campfire story of childhood. When I told my ex's mother that I had taken and repaired the goose, she was thoroughly amused...and a few days later I came home to find a shopping bag next to Jenny filled with all her outfits.

I now live in a house very close to a college campus (not the same one), surrounded by student neighbors. Jenny has continued to grace my porch for a few years now. The kids got a big kick out of her, and looked forward to pulling out the bag at the start of each new season to find her a new outfit to wear.

This morning, my husband and I were leaving the house when he turned to me and said, "Umm...I think our hot goose is hot again." I turned to look, and sure enough she was gone, Santa suit and all. Taken - in all likelihood - by drunk college students.

Maybe I should have been upset, but all I could do was laugh until my ribs ached. A silly and irreplaceable bit of sentimental frippery she was, but what a fitting close to our history together.

Farewell, Jenny, and godspeed you on your future adventures.

Off-white, eggshell, or ecru?

Can't post...must...paint...

Sorry the blog's getting a bit spotty again lately. The new house has been taking up all my time and attention lately, and is starting to remind me strongly of this:
















(Note: if you've never seen this classic '80s film, you have missed out. Go out immediately and rent "The Money Pit". The above referenced scene alone is worth it.) Heck, the landlord even said "two weeks" when we first signed up for this ride.

Between the continued difficulty in getting professional drywallers to show up and the little extra difficulties that have popped up here and there with plumbing and so on, we're still not living in the new place yet. And so I insisted to the landlord that I be allowed to help in any way that I can.

Hoo boy.

My three-day Labor Day weekend was spent doing just that - labor. Painting. Installing electrical outlets. Painting. Scrubbing. Painting. Moving in what I can. And - well, you know. Painting.

I have to admit, I'm a little frayed around the edges right about now. For the past week I've gotten up in the morning and either (1) gone straight to the new house to work; or (2) gone to actual work, picked up Duncan from school, and gone to the new house to work. Then home to make dinner, clean up after dinner, return to house, work until too tired to continue, go to bed and start again. I'm bruised all over, I'm sore all over, I smell paint everywhere I go, and I've burst into random tears on three different occasions in a week simply because...I'm tired. But the house is going to be great!

Sometimes, though, the little victories can make all the difference. Today, when I got into my car after work, the radio crackled to life. The radio has not worked in the entire year that I've owned the car. Sure, it has no AC, a duct-taped bumper, and a loose window I have to guide in with one hand as I roll it up with the other, but it may as well have been a Mercedes as I cruised over to the new house with the tunes cranked up. It was dead again an hour later, but the moment was there. Then when I arrived at the new house, a note wedged into the door by the local gas company let me know I have HOT WATER. And when I went inside? A real live drywaller, repairing the ceiling! And he'll be back TOMORROW TOO!

Folks, you just can't buy euphoria like that. Not legally, anyway.

Where's Wall-Do?

Seems I'm not moving this weekend. There's a tiny problem with the drywall guy. He's gone.

Not 'too busy' or 'canceled' or anything. Just failed to show up, and failing to answer any calls. And without proper walls, we can't move in. The frustrated new landlord was highly apologetic on the phone, swearing that he's calling every drywall guy he can think of, asking not 'how much' but 'how soon can you be here?'. But alas, this is a small college town, and school's just starting up. Drywall guys everywhere are booked solid, as the apartment business just soars this time of year. So we're looking at another week, minimum.

Fortunately for us, we are required to give our current landlord notice from the 1st of the month, and therefore were already going to be paying one more month's rent at our current place. This seemed like an expensive inconvenience at the time, but now it seems like a hidden blessing - if push comes to shove, we're fine to stay where we are for up to another month.

Also, it gives us more time to fix up what we can and thoroughly clean our current apartment. If we're to pay another month's rent here, all the more reason to try and get our full deposit back, yes? Today's project - fix that broken kitchen faucet handle that's been driving me crazy for ages.

I wasn't smart enough to bring the broken one to the store...and realized when I got there that I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for. I settled on a 'universal' faucet set that claimed to 'replace most handles'. Out of the package at home, however, it did not seem to be a match. Even with the variously shaped inserts to the new handles, the 'stem' I was looking at on the sink did not, in fact, seem remotely compatible.

Still, I could see that the part could be unscrewed, and I began to think that maybe this was part of the old handle, and that if I unscrewed that, I would find the sort of stem I was supposed to be looking for. Those of you who see where this is going, stop your tittering immediately. Who's telling the story, here?

I had the part mostly unscrewed...suddenly it burst off as water began SHOOTING from the handle. Panicking and sputtering, I grabbed the piece and jammed it back into the hole, trying desperately to screw it back into place. I was loath to let go long enough to turn off the water, as my efforts were at least staunching the flow somewhat. But as the part refused to go back in and the water rapidly warmed (oh, why did it have to be the HOT water handle), I realized my options were narrowing quickly. I dropped the piece and dived under the sink for the main shutoff, as the water reached geyser proportions.

Water now off, I stood back up and surveyed the chaos. Sudden, blissful silence, punctuated only by the occasional drip, drip from the ceiling. Kitchen counters, soaked. Tray filled with magazines, mail and bills, soaked. Floors, soaked. Songbird, soaked. So I did the only thing that occurred to me in the moment - I laughed. Standing in a huge puddle with water dripping from my hair, I laughed until my ribs ached and my eyes teared up. And then I got the towels.

I did return to the store, this time armed with the old broken handle. Wouldn't you know, the particular type I needed cost about three times more, but hey - it's fixed!

Such is the life of the calamity bird, ladies and gentlemen. Inconvenient at times - but seldom boring.

The Best Laid Plants

Earlier this year I expressed an interest in gardening. Trouble is, my love of gardening is far exceeded by my complete and utter suck at gardening. It's been an adventure this summer, one that has had its ups and downs, but ultimately I am falling back on Rule One of the brown-thumb, namely:

Watch what does grow...and take credit for it!


















And this year, my backyard seems to be the perfect place to do just that. Left to its own devices, it quickly becomes a lush wild jungle of foliage. Nothing that I planted myself was willing to stick around too long, but the yard has grown flush with interesting and unexpected flora. And so, I therefore declare myself Master Gardener of dandelions, Duckfoot and English ivy, the occasional random wildflower, poison ivy and oak (yikes!), and - this is absolutely fabulous -

PUMPKIN.

This caught me completely off guard. My neighbor failed to dispose of her Jack O' Lantern last year, and over the winter months it essentially folded into itself and became a puddle of seeds and pumpkin mush. Combined with a large squirrel population, this became a recipe for the surprise I got this summer when pumpkin plants began taking over my yard.


















Now, I'm a city girl. Raised in a metropolis. Pumpkins come from the store, right? I'd certainly never laid eyes on a pumpkin plant before. These things are HUGE. And startlingly aggressive. According to sites on the Web, they can grow up to six feet per day if you let them. I've scaled this back a bit...but it has still consumed Duncan's little garden bench.

And I thought, How freaking cool is this? I pictured my yard at Halloween, filled with my own pumpkins. Friends joked to me about how we could sit out on Halloween night and await the Coming of the Great Pumpkin.

But alas, it is not to be. It's a long story, but I'm moving this weekend. Not far - just to a bigger house a couple of blocks away. Opportunity knocked, and I answered. This time next week I shall be plagiarizing other plants, far from my pumpkin patch.

I wonder what I shall be a whiz at growing there?

When Songbirds Turn Deadly

I complain about other drivers, I do. There was no denying that fact when I commented one day on a courteous driver who did me a good turn and Duncan piped up from the back, "So, you're NOT the only person in town who knows how to drive?"

But I generally complain about drivers who are obviously bad. The ones who speed like crazy, then tailgate. The ones who feel the need to slip in and out of narrow openings in traffic, changing lanes like a hummingbird with ADD. The ones who are continuously and purposefully making dangerous driving choices. However, when someone cuts me off, makes a poorly timed turn, otherwise causes one of those sudden moments where I have to slam on the brakes - I take it in remarkable stride. Because I know that even good drivers have occasional flashes of stupidity...and I definitely include myself.

I decided to stop at a small shopping center to run an errand while on my way south to do the weekly grocery shopping. This center - 99 percent of the time I turn left to get into it, on a green arrow, then turn right to head back north to my town. Since I still had business further south of town, I turned left into the shopping center...then on my way out had to get into the left lane again...which, from this angle, had no green arrow.

The light changed to green, and in a moment of inattention and force of habit, I promptly proceeded as though I had a green arrow.

When I noticed the head-on I was about to have with an oncoming minivan, my first split-second thought was "What the hell is she doing?" As I slammed on the brakes to avoid her, my second, epiphanic thought was Oh my God, I'm a moron and I almost hurt someone.

But I didn't...and after correcting course and completing the turn, I continued down the road, face burning from embarrassment and engaging in a self-directed tirade that consisted largely of "stupid, stupid, stupid..."

So lady, if you're out there - I'm really, really sorry. I swear I'm usually a better driver. But sometimes all it takes is a moment of inattention, a flash of temporary stupidity, and I'm just glad I didn't manage to seriously ruin the day for both of us.

On a side note, it was a weird day for driving in general. Continuing on toward the grocery store, I found myself caught in a major slowdown, caused by - I am not making this up - a horse-drawn funeral procession. On a major state route, where traffic is normally going 65 miles per hour.

On the way home, I found myself at a red light beside a truck blaring very loud mariachi music. The occupants (there were five or six crammed inside) began hollering for my attention, and when I looked, most of them were pointing to their friend in the backseat with an air of "Eh? Eh? How 'bout it?" and making all sorts of gestures. "Roll down your window!!" they yelled.

"I don't think so," I mouthed back firmly and went on my way, but I couldn't hide the fact that I was smiling. Hey, it's nice to know that, sweaty and tired, wearing a ratty old hippie blouse and a do-rag, I still merit a little drive-by sexual harrassment. I don't care how offended a girl acts; she always likes the reassurance.

When come back, bring pie

For a man who loves to tease that our child is the mailman's son, my husband sure has a reliable little protege at times.

The other night, I was IM'ing back and forth with an old friend, who happened to mention during our conversation that his wife had just brought him a slice of pie at the computer. I relayed this tidbit of information to my own spouse when he idly asked me who I was chatting with.

"Where's my pie?" he asked.

"I don't have any pie for you. I only said that my friend has pie."

"I heard 'pie'. I think you promised pie."

Flash forward to last night. While making dinner, I realized I had forgotten one important ingredient and would have to run to the store in the middle of cooking. (sigh) I let the boys know I was making a quick trip to the store. "You're getting pie too, right?" queried my husband.

"Ermm...."

"You mentioned pie last night. You got my hopes all up. Need pie!"

Duncan perked up, as if on cue. "You're getting pie?!"

"I didn't say that! I never promised pie!"

Duncan, with great vaudevillian flourish: "What's that? You promised PIE?!"

Partners in crime, those two. Pie, anyone?
(P.S. Bonus points if you recognize the title reference.)

Easy bein' green

Recent developments in my life have encouraged me to take a look at my own footprint on the world, and ways that I could be living a little greener. Don't get me wrong - I'm not a die-hard environmentalist and probably never will be. But there are a lot of little things that make a difference, things that don't take much extra effort on my part, and I find that I feel better and I'm having fun doing it!

Things I have learned:

There's more than one way to recycle. With a little online research and a little creativity, I've been finding fabulous ways to steer clear of the trash can, although I think my poor husband is a bit baffled by the weird new collections that surface here and there. Plastic grocery bags are now piling up beside my side of the couch, as I've learned to cut, loop, and twine them into balls of plastic "yarn"...to crochet! I recently used a bunch of said shopping bags to crochet - ironically - a shopping bag. (But this one is strong and reusable, so there.) Glass jars get rinsed and reused for all sorts of purposes, bits of twine and twisties and colored paper go into the crafts drawer...even corn husks have been saved and dried for projects, and hollowed out light bulbs will make great ornaments for next Yule, or even little planters for small herbs and flowers. That's right folks, I'm turning into the ghetto Martha Stewart.

There's more to recycle than I thought. Sure, the city supplied me with a small recycle bin to put out beside my regular garbage bin, and I did generally put my soda cans in it. But it never occurred to me just how much else I could be putting in it until I began to think more before tossing. All the paperboard - cereal boxes, Pop-Tart boxes, soda cartons. ALL the cans - tomato sauce, coconut milk, canned veggies, emptied in the course of preparing supper all get rinsed and thrown in. Milk jugs, plastic creamer bottles from my coffee addiction, yogurt cups. I may have to ask the city if I can have two bins, as it's getting to be a big game of Tetris each Garbage Day, trying to cram everything into the wee recycle bin sitting next to my big half-empty garbage bin.

I need fewer chemicals than I thought. If McGuyver were to go into the cleaning business, he'd so call me up for tips. Turns out a few choice ingredients will create just about anything. Keeping a few basics such as vinegar, baking soda, and washing soda in ready supply, I can create everything from soft scrub to disinfectant spray to furniture polish, all environmentally friendly and very inexpensive....and goodness knows I've got the empty jars and bottles to mix 'em up!

It's not as far as I thought. I used to take the car everywhere. If absolutely necessary, I would walk or bike Duncan to school. It was hard, the first few times, convincing myself to take the bike instead. But with each errand I've run on my bicycle I've had the same thought as I arrived, namely, "I'm here already??" Just a few days ago, in fact, when I found myself low on a few groceries, Duncan and I helmeted up and hit the street. We arrived home a short while later, my basket filled with sodas and a few groceries (all packed in my crocheted plastic grocery bag!), energized from the ride and having a great time together.

I'll say it again, I'm far from perfect. I still buy my sweetener in those convenient little individual packets...and go through lots of 'em. I'm still overly fond of paper towels. I still can't convince myself to invest in seven-dollar 'energy saving' light bulbs when the cheap old 60-watts sit on the shelf beside them at four for a dollar...but I might, if I ever get up the gumption to buy one and see how much longer they really do last. And I do not compost. But the little steps go a surprisingly long way towards making me feel a bit better about myself, and towards working a little exercise and Fun Mommy time into my busy schedule.

And of course, with gas at $3.20 a gallon these days, the nod to my inner Scrooge doesn't hurt either.

Java Jive

Life can be delightfully unpredictable at times. Grab car keys and library books - check. Get to Chess Club meeting on time - check. Become part of random film student's final project - um, check??

Coffeehouses - the Denny's of the next generation, but even more prevalent. My fellow Gen-Xers and I spent our youth in the back booths of Denny's; crammed together in groups of five, or ten, laughing and gaming in a swirling nicotine haze, stretching that unlimited-refill cup of coffee until five in the morning and generally annoying the hell out of the waitresses (you had to tip well). Today's kids have the coffeehouses...but unlike Denny's, they have spread and multiplied to ridiculous proportions. You wouldn't see three Denny's restaurants in a one-block area. You wouldn't see a Denny's booth at the grocery store. Or in the library.

Not that coffeehouses are a new phenomenon, I know. They've enjoyed a certain counterculture appeal since the 60's, and I confess I also passed quite a few youthful evenings in them...usually real hole-in-the-wall joints, furnished with aging overstuffed couches and filled with music and smoke and students playing chess and carrying on all sorts of discussions. But these coffeehouses are bright, clean and corporate - upscale smoke-free establishments with wireless Internet access catering to quiet students individually absorbed in their laptops. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I guess...but it's a different universe.

Ah, but I digress. Time to veer away from the "kids today" speech, because frankly I sound old.

I am a coffee addict, but I am not a fan of the contemporary coffeehouse. Still, Duncan was now engaged in his chess battles, and I had forgotten my customary mug o' coffee from home, so I popped over to the little coffeeshop in the library. I had been in line for a minute or two when a woman approached the counter, identifying herself as a film student, and asked the employee if she could film him making the coffee. Oh, and could she film me buying the coffee? And interview me about coffee? Well, why not!

And boy, she wasn't kidding. She disappeared briefly, and returned with lighting equipment, tripod and camera. She even miked me. And so I sat and sipped my overpriced ambrosia, casually answering questions about why I like coffee, my coffee drinking habits and frequency, what brands of coffee I favor. After regaling her with tales of my all-day addiction and my Zen love of the percolating pot and the ritual of preparing and sipping coffee, I think she was surprised to hear that my favorite coffee is "the cheapest". But really, I'm a gourmand, not a gourmet. With all the sugar and creamer I pour in there, it really doesn't matter too much anyway. Spider Robinson would disavow my existence for saying that.

The funniest part? I didn't exactly plan to be filmed today. The coffee-phile she interviewed in that brightly lit yuppie nook appeared in geek glasses, burgundy hair askew, pentacle necklace and a Beatles' Rubber Soul shirt. A relic of the 'classic' coffeehouse if I've ever seen one.

Bad Carma

Duncan was a wee bit late for school today; you see, my husband normally comes home from work between 8:30-8:45am in our only car, and then I take Duncan to school. Today, however, my phone rang at about 8:35. My husband wanted to know if I could look up our auto insurance policy number.

Siiiiiiiggggghhhhhhh. Not what a girl wants to hear first thing in the morning before she's had her coffee. But I don't complain. Because you see, this time - yes, THIS time - he was hit by someone who (a) stopped and (b) has insurance!

Chalk it up to bad karma I guess. Perhaps in a prior life my husband was a menace to society behind the wheel, because he seems to attract this sort of thing. He's a good driver. We keep our insurance up. He checks over his shoulder before changing lanes, uses turn signals properly and sets the handbrake when parking on an incline and washes his hands after using the bathroom. But check this out -

- in 1999, we got up one morning to find that someone had smashed into the side of our car, breaking the side mirror and messing up the driver's side door. No note, no person. The car door never opened fully again.

- in 2001, we got up one morning and found that someone had smashed into the rear of our car, taking out the taillight and crunching up the bumper. Different car. No note, no person.

- in 2002, my husband was sitting at a red light when someone rear-ended him, then backed up a bit, and sped off around him. Nobody caught the license plate number.

- in 2005, he was driving down a narrow street when someone opened his car door into traffic JUST as my husband was passing him. Minimal damage to the guy's car, but our passenger side was screwed up so badly that the door was stuck shut. A police report was involved this time, and exchange of information went smoothly. But the guy apparently gave us a hotel address and false insurance information. I climbed over the driver's side to the passenger seat every time we went somewhere for the duration of our ownership of that car.

But our luck must be changing (hope!). My husband pulled over the side of the road, grumbling, and cynically watched for the other driver to take off. Instead, she pulled over behind him, exited her car apologizing profusely, and exchanged information with him. Understandably, they went ahead and made insurance calls at the scene this time. Her insurance, Progressive, was prompt and helpful, and we have an appointment to drop off our car with them and pick up a rental tomorrow while they fix the decimated bumper and taillight at no charge to us. The driver herself, who was sweet as pie, called to follow up with us to make sure everything was taken care of.

As for Duncan? Well, he got to make his lazy out-of-shape mom finally take the bicycles out after the long winter and bike to school with him; despite the short notice, he was only a few minutes late. You know, he's probably thinking Daddy should be late more often...

A skin what?

Folks, give blood. I can't stress this enough. It's been said that only five percent of the eligible population does, and hospitals around the country have acute shortages every year. It's quick and relatively painless for most folks, and it saves lives. The anecdote I'm going to relate here is just amusing to me and should not discourage any healthy adult from giving.

You see, I have an unlucky history with blood donation. Never stops me from coming back, but still. For one thing, I'm almost perpetually iron-deficient despite a reasonable diet and regular vitamins. The week before a blood drive, I have to really make sure to take those multivitamins with extra iron AND a separate iron supplement, eat my red meat, drink plenty of water....and it's often still close to the cutoff. For another, my veins are apparently situated more sideways than most. Good to know for future reference, but until one good phlebotomist recently figured this out and told me, every blood drive meant getting stuck repeatedly because they'd feel the vein there, stick the needle in at a nearly parallel angle, and get nothing. The vast majority of donors sweep in and out of the center without a hitch while this goes down.

So I'm feeling good about my odds today. I let the girl know about my previous difficulties and the angle of my veins. She nods, and after applying the cuff and feeling around a bit, is confident that she's found a nice big vein. She traces it on my arm with a purple marker, and it's in the same spot I'd seen the other person mark. I settle in.

She sticks the needle in...and seemingly misses the vein. So she pulls the needle back without withdrawing completely and pushes it forward again, and again, trying to get the blood flowing. This really hurts. And every time I suck in my breath or grip the armrest the technician pauses uncertainly and says, "Are you O.K.?" Lady, this isn't a danger to my health it just hurts so yes I'm okay and I know my blood is important and I will clench my teeth and clutch the chair but QUIT STOPPING TO ASK IF I'M OKAY AND FINISH IT. She gets another phlebotomist, who also pulls the needle back and forth a couple times before calling over a third. The third one, bless her, tries once and then says to the first, "You've got a skin plug."

The first girl stares back just as blankly as I do. Apparently a tiny piece of skin broke off when she stuck me and it plugged up the needle. They could have moved that needle all afternoon and never gotten it going. So they have to take the needle completely out and start over. At this point my arm is way too tender so I get it bandaged and offer up my other one. The girl clearly feels SO bad about this that it is impossible to be mad at her. She even offers to replace herself, but in over a decade of donations I've never had a 'skin plug' occur and I really don't chalk it up to any ineptitude on her part. She marks my other arm and places the needle expertly on the first try, the bag fills quickly, and I am chomping down cookies in no time.

So now here I sit, both arms wrapped in cheerfully colored self-stick gauze and one arm definitely more tender than the other, but still very glad that I did my part today. And as my husband pointed out...with both arms bandaged, I look like I donated the hell out of my blood today. Hardcore, man.

I need this!

I dropped by the local discount hardware store, hoping to find some good paving stones for the backyard...tomorrow I plan to do some major work on the backyard, reseed some bald patches, dig up the soil around the edges, lay some fertilizer and hopefully start a garden. (I say hopefully - I am a notorious brown-thumb who could probably kill a silk plant.) Since it was right next to Goodwill, of course I had to stop in there as well.

I...love...Goodwill. I really do. Though in general I seem to lack that stereotypical female shopping gene, I can spend a long time browsing through the Goodwill. You just never know what little treasures you might find. And when I found this particular treasure, I knew immediately that (a) I had absolutely no need for it; and (b) I wasn't leaving the store without it.

A chalkboard, and a rather big one at that. It was about three foot by four foot, with a wooden frame and the green slate I remember from my childhood. Just being near it evoked memories of my childhood and a faint smell of chalk dust. Do you know, the chalkboard is already obsolete in the classroom? I've been to my son's classes. They all use dry-erase boards now. With those smelly markers. It just doesn't compare.

So I loaded it, with great difficulty, into my little Dodge Neon and drove it home, relying entirely on side mirrors as it effectively obscured my rear view. I lovingly placed it in my son's room, who was duly happy to have it. Armed with a fresh piece of chalk, I stood thoughtfully before it, and in a tribute to my school days, christened it with a right triangle and the equation, a = 1/2(bxh).

Duncan stepped up with his piece of chalk and added, "My mom is a poophead."

How true.

Oh, and this is now my most favoritest cookie fortune ever.

SPEED IS A PPOOR SUBSTITUTE FOR ACCURANCY

Flashin' for Jesus

I stopped in at my local convenience store/gas station today. As I stood at the counter, preparing to pay for my purchases, I was approached by an elderly man. He was seventy if he was a day, wearing an oversized jacket and a grin that said if he had any teeth, they were still sitting on his nightstand somewhere. He got up close, leaned casually on the counter, and in a manner reminiscent of a flasher whipped open his jacket. What the hell? And lo, he was wearing a black T-shirt with huge white lettering that said:

SATAN SUCKS

Then he began to giggle. And giggle, and utter that particular sort of guffaw that is usually the demesne of the Special Needs kid. I was utterly nonplussed.

"Well! How about that. That's a very...straightforward shirt." Okay, so I had no idea what to say. And I don't believe in Satan. And I certainly don't want to get into a theological discussion with an eccentric guffawing stranger. He continued to simply stand there, looking expectantly at me and grinning, while I completed my transaction, then I bid him farewell and left. As I got into my car, I found that I was grinning myself.

I thought, if that wasn't a blog moment, I don't know what is. And to tell the truth, I didn't mind a bit. It was an interesting moment in an otherwise ordinary day.