May 29, 2009

twit·terpaeter (twĭt΄ēr·pæter)

n, twitterpaeter: a person who uses the mini-blogging site Twitter

v, twitterpaeted: a state of nervous excitement

n, tweeter: someone who obsessively tweets; ref, tweaker

When I was twelve, I came very close to buying an 8-track player. Some clever salesperson almost managed to convince me that an 8-track was a good investment… in the 90’s.

It’s not that I’m technologically backwards. I do the blog thing (obviously) and the Facebook thing and the iTunes thing, etc, etc. It’s just that I’m not very good at picking out which technologies are going to be a success.

For example, I thought DVD’s were a total fad. DVDs were going to be the zip disks of computer memory storage, or the APS film cartridges of photography.

And if right now you’re scratching your head and going, “zip disks? APS film?” then you see my point. They were so quickly replaced by newer technologies (flash drives and digital cameras) that they were hardly worth the trouble it took to replace all your floppy discs and film cameras.

For reasons unknown even to myself, I sometimes resist technological advancement the way the indigenous peoples of Africa used to resist having their picture taken because. it. might. steal. their. soul. Needless to say, it wasn’t until after the start of the 21st century that I joined the cell-phone-owning, compact-disc-playing and cable-television-watching crowd.

This is kind of the way I feel about Twitter. I do not have a twitter account, and what’s more, I’m not really sure that I want a twitter account. It's a fad. I mean, I know celebrities twitter and the President twitters and all the cool people do it.

But I am just not a twitterpater. Not yet, at least. Newfangled internet thingy.

Chloe gives *us* a present for *her* birthday

May 26, 2009

My favorite local radio hosts, John Jay and Rich, do this segment on Mondays entitled, “After this weekend, I will never do ______ again.”

So let’s just say that after this weekend, I will never get on the airplane without hand sanitizer again.

Wednesday was the dog’s birthday. She turned 2, and in celebration of this event the husband bought her a giant steak, which he grilled and cut up into little pieces. We tried to get her to pose for a photo, but she wouldn’t tear her face away from the food dish long enough to snap the shutter.



Seriously, she ate that whole steak so fast I’m surprised it wasn’t still mooing on the way down.

Since we were taking the day off on Friday, that meant our Memorial Day weekend officially started on Thursday evening. We packed up the dog, the cat, and a couple of overnight bags and loaded them into the plane for a flight back to Phoenix.

It was the cat’s first flight, but the dog was pretty much an old pro. Having flown with us half a dozen times or so, she had the routine down. This is how it usually goes:

Make sure dog pottys before we leave for airport. Arrive at airport and load dog into back seat of plane. During taxi and pre-flight, dog sits in seat, leans forward, pants, and drools on our shoulders. After takeoff, dog lays down on seat and promptly goes to sleep. Dog does not wake up until after landing at our destination.

[This is usually what she does the whole flight]

Thursday’s flight was different. About 45 minutes into a 2 hour flight, the dog started whining. We could not figure out why the dog was whining so much.

The whining stopped. Chris and I both smelled it at the same time. We looked at each other, “Oh, no, Chloe!”

The dog had let lose some violent diarrhea all over the back seat of the plane.

Did I mention we still had over an hour left on our flight?

The entire half of the seat behind Chris was covered. The poor dog was sitting on the other half of the back seat, one of her paws in the air, with an expression on her face that said, “I am so sorry but I tried to tell you guys and -eww- I do not want to put my paw in that.”

Chris turned to me, “Hon, can you get the paper towels and at least make sure the seat is covered so she doesn’t step in it and get it all over her?”

“Sure,” I replied, “where are the paper towels?”

“They’re behind your seat.”

So I reach back behind my seat. However, instead of finding the paper towels, my hand touches something wet and gooey. I am instantly suspicious that this is not dog drool that I have set my hand into.

Sure enough, the dog had also gotten the floor behind my seat.

Did I mention we still have over an hour left on the flight? And I had poo all over my hands. And we did not have any hand sanitizer.

The saving grace was that she had managed to miss the paper towels, so I wiped my hands the best I could and tried not to touch anything for the rest of the trip. About a half an hour after The Event, my husband looked at me and said, “I really can’t smell it that much any more.”
I just looked at him. And held up my hands. “Speak for yourself.”

Eventually, we landed, I was able to wash my hands, and we hired someone to shampoo the seats and floor. But valuable lessons were learned this past weekend. I learned that hand sanitizer can be extremely handy to have on the airplane, and Chris learned not to feed the dog a giant steak dinner the night before a plane trip. And Chloe learned... well, nothing. She's a dog. Although if she were capable of complex thinking, it would probably be something along the lines of, "not all presents are as fun on the way out as they were going in."

Happy Birthday, Chloe. Next time, leave the gift-giving to us, huh?

Celebrate Slippers

May 14, 2009

Today is Thursday, May 14th, 2009.

Did you know? Today is "Let's-everybody-wear-our-houseslippers-to-Subway-day."

I say this because, in the space of 15 minutes while ordering my sandwich, I saw - not one - but TWO people wearing slippers in the store. And no, these people did not know eachother or come in to the store together. It wasn't some sort of statement, they really were just wearing their house slippers out in public.

And when I say house slippers, I don't mean those Croc things that somehow, despite all the best efforts of the Fashion Police, managed to become acceptable footwear for a time. I mean the fuzzy kind. REAL slippers. In public.

Because, heaven forbid, they might have had to put on shoes before noon.

Thanks for the gift...

May 08, 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

We would like to thank you for your excellent choice in wedding gifts. The glasses will come in very handy for beverage consumption. Our Labrador retriever, Chloe, has already field-tested them, and they hold up well in rugged outdoor conditions. Not that we ever expect to throw them down on the grass and roll them around the yard, or chew on them, but if we ever did, we know that these glasses would remain both unbroken and unscratched after a long day of such activities.

You see, when the mail person delivers our packages, it happens like this: She walks up to the front gate of our yard. She stops just outside the gate and then, with the aplomb of an Olympic shotput thrower, chucks the package over the fence and into our yard. Said package usually lands between 5 and 15 feet from the gate, depending on its weight, size, and general awkwardness for throwing. This is how the package ended up in our yard, where the dog mistook it for a chew toy (despite the hundreds of actual pet-store-sanctioned chew toys provided to her for avoiding just this situation).

So not only did the glasses survive the Labrador test, they also survived the angry-mail-person test! Unfortunately, the cardboard box in which they were packaged did not hold up so well. This is okay in the sense that we had no intentions of using the box once the glasses were removed (incidentally, the glasses can be removed from the box quite violently and still remain intact!) But the downside to the box’s demise is that the packing slip also suffered the same fate. And the packing slip contained the name of the sender(s) of the gift.

Since the packing slip was not immune to being shredded into little bits by an over-excitable and determined Labrador, we were greeted by a lawn full of confetti upon our return home from work. And it was windy, so not all of the little bits were retrievable, were we to even try and piece them together. The important thing here is that we did receive your gift, and it is much appreciated. However, we do not know where to send our thanks. Please do not think of us as ungrateful, beverage-drinking ruffians who can’t take the time to send a simple thank-you.

All humor aside, if you are reading this letter and are the aforementioned gift-giver, please see the thank-you card attached below. We apologize for its impersonal nature. Hopefully, you also have a dog, and can sympathize.

Much Love,

The newlyweds

P.S. The dog ate the thank-you cards too when they were delivered. Seriously. This whole thank-you thing was just not destined to happen.

Thank You

The usual yard sale stuff

May 06, 2009

Backhoe... $5900

Water Tank... $3900
Big Cooler... $3900

Everything you need for your very own in-ground cold-water redneck pool?



That old joke about light bulbs

May 04, 2009

Q: How many grown men does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Apparently, seven, if beer is involved.

It was a relaxing Saturday evening, and we were at a friend's house for a Cinco de Mayo party. The boys were playing their favorite game, "washoes," which is basically a cross between horseshoes and sandbags, only it involves astroturf and giant washers. The sun was setting, and the guys needed more light for their game. They turned on the outside flood lights, but quickly discovered that the crucial game-illuminating light was not working. They all clustered around the defective light with varying looks of concern on their faces, and began throwing out theories as to why it did not work and what could be done to fix it.

"Maybe if you switch it with those lights over there-"
"Before they get too hot to unscrew-"
"Hey, why did all the lights go off-"
"They hit the light switch-"
"Are they on the same circuit-"
"Okay, yeah just swap that one out-"
"It's flickering-"
"I know what you're doing wrong from over here, let me-"
"Okay there, it's on-"
"Now it's off-"
"Yo've got it on again, leave it-"
"But it's not pointed just right-"
"Aw, now it's off again-"
"Okay there it's on-"
"Just keep it there-"
"All right, it's on!"

And thus, after only fifteen minutes and two failed attempts, seven grown men successfully changed a light bulb.