The Junk Drawer

Today scientists uncovered what Poindexter would have looked like if he was a girl. Fact: If I was a boy, I would have been beat up a LOT.

I think I argued that I actually wanted those glasses when my mother objected. I insisted that brown went with my eyes.

It’s all about the shoes: I remember these shoes as the most fabulous pair that existed in 1973. Why? Because you could remove the blue dots snap-on thing that went over the toe and wear red ones if you were feeling a little “night on the town.” I recall having great difficulty choosing between blue and red for my Holy Communion. You know, because all the church-going paparazzi were going to be there.

What’s the verdict? Cute or scary?

Can someone please tell me why I can configure and order a pizza online and have it delivered to my house in 30 minutes, but I can’t get an HMO referral form from my doctor without making four phone calls and have no confidence that the referral will get where it’s going without making a fifth call?

It’s the 21st century, people. Can we please get online now?

When I call my doctor to get a referral, I’m greeted by an excruciatingly-long introductory message that explains what numbers to press on the phone to be connected to a certain place.

The first three “If you need to ______, press # ___” instructions tell you to press either 1, 2 or 3. You would expect the fourth option to tell you to press #4, wouldn’t you?  Of course not. You press 15 on the keypad. Makes perfect sense.

Next, the nice recorded-voice lady tells me the seven pieces of information I need to leave in a message to get my referral, in very quick succession:

1. Name

2. Date of birth

3. Phone number

4. Doctor I need the referral for

5. Practice name and address

6. Nature of the visit

7. Health plan I have

Now, that’s all well and good, except I’m already stressed out that I won’t get all this information spat out in the right order and I’m not sure I heard it all. So I call back to go through the menu again and to hear the instructions again. Didn’t get it all. Call again.

Now, and only now, I’m ready to call back with all my information. I’ve rehearsed it well. I wrote it down on three post-it notes and I’m also on my second cup of coffee.

I leave all 7 pieces of information. But now do I press the pound (#) key to leave the message? Do I just hang up? What if they didn’t get it? Do I have any hope of reaching a person if I call again?

I guess I can call my doctor who needed the referral the next day. Another menu. Another wait until I get a human on the line. I finally get through and they confirm that they got the referral.

Yes, I’m glad I have health insurance. Yes, I’m glad it pays for my visit. But for crying out loud, can’t someone figure out how to set up a secure referral request system so I can do this online?

It would be such a simple form and I would get an email confirmation that everybody got what they needed. My God, my blog can do that! It boggles my mind that we are still using phones and fax machines for this process. You can’t tell me that the doctor’s office staff wouldn’t love this, too.

Thank you, slow, horrible, inefficient, non-online referral request system. Cripes, I could have had a pizza by now.

My pal Lee from Tar Heel Ramblings tagged me for the Seven Weird Things About Me meme. I’m not a meme person so much as I’m a weird person. Putting this list together will take all of five minutes.

The rules: Cite and link to your source (me), then enjoy writing about 7 Weird Things About Yourself, then tag some people and help spread the weirdness.

Here we go:

1. I once took my cat, Calvin (RIP), to a therapist for his anger “issues” and paid $200 for the pleasure. He almost bit her and I was secretly happy because she should have known better than to stick her hand in his carrier.

2. I microwave salads and ice cream before eating them. Twenty seconds for the salad, fifteen for the ice cream.

3. I purposely keep snack bags open so chips or cheese curls go stale. Mmmmm…..stale snacks!

4. I’m physically unable to burp. Not even after drinking a carbonated beverage. It’s not fun. It hurts. And it leaves me bloated.

5. I enjoy the most intense of amusement park rides, but I can’t cross a bridge by foot because I know I’ll pass out from being up so high.

6. To finish my bachelors degree, I voluntarily took the last 12 courses in 12 months, while starting a new job. It almost killed me.

7. As a kid, I almost threw up after eating homemade strawberry ice cream. I only ate it because it was served to me at a friend’s house and I thought it would be bad manners to decline. Later that night, I talked in my sleep and hallucinated a movie on the walls of my bedroom. My sister and I shared the room and she thought I was the devil.

Now, I’m not one to thrust a meme on anyone, but if any of my fellow bloggy friends want to join in the weirdness, consider yourself tagged. Hop to it!

One would reasonably expect that if you entered a restroom at work that your private activities would be between only you and the toilet bowl. Not in our building.

A couple of months ago our restrooms were outfitted with the Kimberley-Clark Professional Toilet Paper Dispenser. It’s a fine toilet paper dispenser. Except for one thing.

Every time someone pulls paper from the rolls, something inside the dispenser shakes and shimmies so loudly, it sounds like machine-gun fire. How do we know? Our suite is located on the other side of the wall and the walls are paper thin.

What does this mean for us? Well, we get to hear every single time someone is about to …. er …. take care of the cleaning end of business. Once or twice a day wouldn’t bother me and my office mates, but our office is located next to a very popular, conveniently-located bathroom. Everybody uses it.

Yesterday I counted how many times we got to hear someone …. er …. get spring fresh. Thirty one times.

If you’re a regular reader here, you know I have issues with annoying noises and this is no different.  In fact, it’s worse than any of the other annoying noises because those aren’t attached to a private bodily function.

We’ve considered hanging a sign on the dispenser that reads: “Please pull paper gently. We can hear you.” But that will only serve to freak people out and we’re not that cruel. I decided the best thing to do is ask our Facilities Services staff to send someone over to either remove it and replace it with a quieter model.

Here’s the request I submitted:

The mens (Rm336) and ladies restroom (Rm334) toilet paper dispensers are incredibly loud. Everyone in our suite can hear whenever someone is in there. We never heard anything with the old type dispenser. It’s embarrassing to hear it all day, and so loud it disturbs our work. Hanging a sign “Please be quiet. We can hear you.” is not an option. Can they be removed, or fixed to be silenced? Thanks.

What happened today? A service repairman showed up in my office and asked “You the woman who reported a loud toilet paper dispenser?” Responding the only way I knew how to the most ridiculous question ever uttered in the English language, I said “Um. Yeah. Sorry.”

He and I then proceeded to discuss the problem at hand. I made him walk over to the kitchenette which is opposite the restrooms. I told him if he stood there for five minutes, he was sure to hear it. Every single time someone is in the bathroom, without fail, we get the noise.

I was really glad that one of my office mates, Jason, showed up to confirm to the nice man that indeed we are subjected to loud toilet paper rolling. We both explained that not only were we jarred by this loud noise, but that I could actually feel the vibrations from it under my feet if I stood near the shared wall.

That’s when he looked at us and said “It’s highly doubtful it’s the TP dispenser then.” Though it did just occur to us that it would be beyond bizarre to actually feel its vibration through the floor, we insisted we test our theory about the dispenser and MAKE it make the noise.

So off Jason went to the men’s room. “I’ll go nuts on the thing and I know you’ll hear it.”  The serviceman and I stood and waited as I grew increasingly embarrassed at having drug this guy over to our office to listen to our bathroom noise. I asked him if this was the stupidest job he ever got assigned and he said “Yeah, pretty much.”

Jason did like he said and went ballistic on the dispenser. The only problem was it didn’t sound like the noise we’ve been hearing. He ran back over and reported that it wasn’t the right noise. So I suggested it was the ladies room dispenser. Off I went to “fake pee” and do a number on the toilet paper. What I fast realized is it cannot possibly be this dispenser because you can barely get two good sheets out of the thing, much less pull down real hard so that the rollers shake and shimmy. I returned to the office deflated. “That’s not it!”

The serviceman who’d been humoring us all this time gave his assessment: “I think there’s air in the water lines. I’ll take a look.” He suspected that every time someone turned on the faucet to wash their hands, water and air ran through the lines and caused the noise. Just as we were getting over our embarrassment, we all heard THE noise. “Yep. It’s your water lines.” He rooted around in the maintenance closet, while I returned to my office with my tail between my legs. Whatever he worked on silenced the noise.

So it turns out our co-workers are not violent toilet paper grabbers after all, and we are the stupidest people on the planet. Thank God I never hung that note.

——-

Other humor bloggers are way smarter than me.

After digging through box after box of old photos, I finally found both of my high school prom pictures. So can everyone stop harassing me now? The funny thing about these pictures is that I’m not prepared to say that I look like the Bride of Frankenstein. I actually think I look fairly hot, in a trampy, Little House on the Prairie kind of way. I don’t know. You be the judge.

Note: I have blacked out my date’s eyes, you know, to avoid getting sued and all that. He’s an oral surgeon now and could probably buy me ten times over. Please God, don’t let him find my blog.

First up, the junior prom (click to enlarge)

This is the gown that my Dad didn’t want me leaving the house in. Why? Because under that tiny tulle shawl covered an embarrassing amount of cleavage. Without the shawl, the gown looked and felt like lingerie from Fredericks of Hollywood and now, as a mature woman, I can understand why my Dad was having a coronary. Sorry, Dad.

Memorable moment: When some jerk slam-danced onto my toe and made it bleed. I got blood on my gown and when I told my date what happened, he went over to they guy’s table and had a few words. A few loud words. There may have been a punch involved. Not sure. Then he made him come over and apologize to me. The poor guy didn’t mean it, but he never spoke to me again as long as I was still hooked up with my prom date. Ahhh, fear. The Great Motivator.

Next up, the senior prom. The pendulum clearly swung in the other direction a year later because I zipped myself up so good, only my hands and face were exposed, and just barely. This gown says “Don’t look at me. Don’t touch me. And where’d I put my butter churner?” I don’t recall lace being so “in” that year. I might have just been trying to undo my hooker look from the year before.

Memorable moment: I don’t actually remember anything from this prom, since my brain cells were being fried up in the heat of this gown. Despite its being lacy, there were layers and layers of it, all conspiring to envelope me in a sauna of my own doing. The day was hot. The day was humid. I couldn’t breathe and I’m pretty sure I ripped this thing off and stuffed it in the garbage when the night was over.

So what’s the consensus, people? Bride of Frankenstein or hot, hot hottie? Go ahead. I can take it.

Some of my favorite blogs are designed with white (or light) text on a dark background. There’s only one problem. I can’t read them.

Evidently I’m one of those people who finds the contrast straining on the eye. It’s OK for a minute or so, but if I’m reading a lengthy article, after a while my eyes get very tired and I have to stop.

Also, when I click onto another page, the image from the light-on-dark page remains, sort of like a picture negative.

So what do I do to keep reading those blogs? I created a little bookmarklet in my Firefox web browser that contains java script to swap the color contrast. When I click the button, light goes dark, and dark goes light. Ahhh! Much better.

The only problem is that I can’t find a way to do the same thing for my readers who use Internet Explorer. Believe me, I’ve tried. If anyone knows how to create a bookmarklet for java script, let me know and I’ll post it.

To create this bookmarklet in Firefox, make sure you have an active Bookmarks Toolbar. Click View > Toolbars and make sure Bookmarks Toolbar has a checkmark next to it. If not, click it and it’ll be activated.

Drag this link up to your Bookmark Toolbar and drop it there. It’ll create a button that you can rename if you want. Right-click the button, left-click Properties and in the Name field enter something like Switch Contrast or whatever you want to call it. Click OK.

Now when you visit a blog or web site that uses light text on a dark background, click that button and the colors will be inverted!

If you don’t have Firefox, you can get it here. I’m not a fan of Internet Explorer, so I take every chance I get to sing Firefox’s praises. If you need some help with this tip, drop a comment in the drawer or email me at kathyblog07 [at] gmail [dot] com and I’ll be happy to help you!

Post addendum: Whoops! I need to clarify that I did not write the java script. I created the bookmarklet from script I found on the web. I cannot properly credit the person who wrote it because there is no linkback to his site. All I know is his name is Robert. That’s all I could find at the site I found the script on. So, thanks Awesome Java Script-writing Robert Somebody. You’re saving our eyes!

Potato salad anyone? Today we have two new additions to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection, submitted by a colleague whose husband thought she was nuts for photographing a heart-shaped potato. Until he found another one just like it and wanted to get in the game.

Here we have the first ever husband-and-wife team submission called Two of Hearts. Thanks Maryann and Frank!

When I saw I was getting potatoes that looked like stuff, I dusted off a potato picture of my own that I’ve been holding onto since Christmas. I wanted to submit it to the collection but couldn’t figure out what it looked like. I know it looks like something, but can’t place it.

Maybe my readers can help. Here it is.

I’m convinced this peeled potato resembles someone from children’s literature. It may be an animal. It may be a person. I enlisted the help of a librarian where I work, who also believes it looks like a character from literature. Along with the photo, I emailed her my description of who I think it is:

I believe it’s from a classic book and that the character I’m thinking of wears glasses. I see a short, stocky male character who is possibly also dim-witted.

Another colleague who reviewed the photo believes that the character is British and has small animal-like hands.

We have ruled out characters from Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit, as well as Mole from The Wind in the Willows. It helps to view this picture as a face that is gazing upward to your left and that its right eye is out of view.

In my mind’s eye, I see the character as having little or no neck. He speaks softly and may or may not wax philosophical. He is not the protagonist in the story, nor a foil. Although he may be of little brain, he is wise in a Winnie-the-Pooh kind of way.

If anyone recognizes who this might be, please cast your vote in the comments section. If you think I’ve finally lost my marbles, don’t bother telling me because I already know I have.

p.s. He was cut up into cubes and made a fine addition to our Christmas dinner. He didn’t scream at all.

———-

Humor-bloggers prefer french-fried potatoes.

I have a co-worker who farts. Well, not in the conventional sense. She doesn’t fart, but her shoes do.

Apparently Dr. Scholl’s makes a product called Massaging Gel Insoles that are supposed to provide added support and comfort to your feet all day long. Slip them in your shoes and you’re Ginger Rogers.

The problem, she says, is they’re made of plastic. Plastic makes your feet sweat. Sweaty feet make farting noises when you walk. We always know when she’s coming because she sounds like a fart machine. Farty fart fart.

Doesn’t anyone test these things in the real world before putting them out on the market?

I would make an awesome product tester:

1. If I worked for Dell, I could have told them years ago how stupid it was to stick front side USB ports underneath a big plastic panel that you have to lift up and then search around for the ports. The uplifted panel shields light from the area you’re poking around in, plus the ports are fixed at a 45 degree angle. Some of my clients at work ripped the damn things off permanently and it’s still hard to insert a thumb drive.

2. If I worked for Charmin, I could tell them that their Ultra Strong version of toilet paper doesn’t stand a chance in hell of being flushed down the toilet on the first try. It’s the consistency and thickness of paper towels, and no one with half a brain would try to flush paper towels. Stick with the Ultra Soft brand if you want to save a thousand gallons of water.

3. If I worked for any computer manufacturer, I would have told them how hard it is to read which is the DVD drive and which is the CD drive. Nice job printing which is which, embossed in black writing on a black background.

4. If I worked for TV manufacturers, I could tell them that people need about five buttons on a remote control, an ON/OFF button, two for channel-changing and two for volume. If it’s a DVR controller, a few more. I do not need half the buttons on my current controller. I can’t find the ones I need. Oh, and it’s the size of a mailbox. I almost need two hands to use it.

5. If I worked for Honda, I would have told them that the trunk latch and the gas cap release are too close together. I’m either opening my truck at the gas station, or opening my gas cap door when I need to unload groceries.

6. If I worked for a bedding company, I would have told them to make comforters the way they used to be made — so they’ll fit in your home washer and dryer. For God’s sake, at least put a label on the package that says “You’ll have to drag this beast to a laundromat and spend your Saturday afternoon pumping quarters in a jumbo washer because that’s the only one big enough, and then you’ll have to drag it half wet to your car because it’ll never get dry, and you may drop it on the way because it weighs fifty pounds and it’ll get nice and dirty again.”

So there. Will somebody please hire me as a product tester? And Dr. Scholl’s, you need to do something about your farting insoles.

———

Humor-bloggers wear fartless shoes.

No one has to tell me I’ve gained weight this year. Not that anyone would dare say that to my face, or they’d have a mouthful of Chicklets for teeth.

And not that I don’t recognize what happened to my body over the last 12 months. I see it every day in the mirrors I haven’t already thrown a drape over.

But as so often happens with weight gain, you tend to ignore the obvious and just buy bigger clothes. Last week, my butt decided to publicly and rudely remind me of just how big it’s gotten. It almost injured a person.

The date: Friday, January 4.

Where: In a seminar room at work. I was about to give a presentation to a group of graduate students, who had just begun filing in at the door next to the instructor’s station.

How it happened: As I was preparing materials and kicking equipment cables out of the way, I backed up into the line of students and my butt nearly jettisoned a petite, twenty-something woman past the coat rack, through a wall and into the next room.

I. was. mor-ti-FIED. One, because my body was capable of almost knocking someone to the floor, and 2) because SHE apologized to ME. Oh, please don’t say you’re sorry. I almost killed you.

For those of you who think I’m exaggerating, I swear on a stack of Twinkies I’m not. The scale doesn’t lie. I’ve gained 25 pounds since last December. Twenty-three of them went straight to my butt, and the other two went to my face: one pound to Chin #1 and the other to Chin #2.

This bizarre distribution is because I have one of those pear-shaped bodies. I’m two sizes bigger on the bottom than I am on the top. I look pretty much the same in my blog photo as I did when it was taken about a year ago. It’s the lower half of me that needs work.

So what to do? I’m not averse to exercise, but it’s much harder to get outdoors and walk in the winter. I prefer walking as exercise over anything else. My plan is to try and burn calories indoors, at work, so I don’t have to walk in the cold and darkness at night.

Here’s the plan I’ve devised:

1. I’ve begun to stand at my desk while working. So that I’m not hunched over while typing on my laptop, I stuck a box under it so that it’s at waist-level and easier to work. It looks stupid, but I’m considering alternatives.

2. A friend sent me some information about JARM-ing, (J)ogging with your ARMS, an upper-body exercise you can do anywhere. Basically, I’m flexing and flailing my arms around in the privacy of my own cubicle and burning extra calories while doing it. It looks a little goofy, but I’ll take goofy over fat any day of the week.

3. No more junk food, especially not take-out. My husband and I like to order take-out on Friday nights. And Mondays. And Thursdays. And weekends. When he asked yesterday if we could get cheeseburgers and cheese sticks, I replied “No. We’re not doing that anymore.” Simple as that. I’m pretty militant about my plan. He has no choice but to lose weight with me. He’ll thank me later.

Although this “standing while working” thing has its benefits (you burn about 100 calories an hour vs. 40 if you’re just sitting), standing so long will hurt you in some way. The first day I tried it, I did it for six of nine hours and started to get short stabbing pains in my lower back.

Tweaks to the plan:

1.  When a colleague saw what I was doing, he promptly yelled at me “You can’t do that in THOSE shoes.” So now I wear supportive sneakers when I’m not meeting with clients.

2. I mentioned my crazy plan to my sister, who promptly yelled at me “You can’t do that! You probably have a quarter inch of carpet over a concrete floor! You need a special mat for that!” A special standin’ and flailin’ mat?

So I’m off this weekend to shop for a couple things. One, something else to put my laptop on, so I can get rid of the cardboard box it’s currently sitting on. And two, a “special mat,” whatever that might be. I need to find something that a chair can roll over for times when I need to sit down and rest.

Is my plan working? Most definitely. I’ve lost three pounds this week. I’m not going for quick weight loss, although I know how to do that (I once lost 7lbs in one week on The Survivor Diet, eating nothing but rice and water. It works, but it’s unsustainable. Plus, I think it can kill you.) The loss has to be gradual, the way it went on. I accept that, despite wanting to get rid of this big butt by next Wednesday.

If you’d like to share creative diet and exercise tips that work for you, drop a comment in the drawer. I’m open to crazy.

——-

Humor-blogs has some fine butts, I’ve heard.

Last month I treated everyone to the product of my laziness: The Pumpkin Tree Display. Make sure you go look at it to see how nice it looked a couple weeks ago.

Here’s how it looks now. The day before I took this picture, none of these pumpkins looked that bad. They had mold, yes. But they were still round. And not oozing. And still pumpkins.

Somewhere between 7AM and 5PM Monday, the two orange ones simply gave up the fight. Actually, they had help.  Here in eastern PA, we enjoyed a 70+ degree day, blue skies and balmy. Me thinks this isn’t the best environment for three-month-old pumpkins to thrive.

Now, we had trash pickup day on Thursday. Do you think I’d be smart enough to take them to the curb? Of course not. Here they will sit for another week and God knows what they’ll look like then.

Since it seems that members of the pumpkin family have a built-in, self-implosion mechanism in place, it’s my hope that they will keep imploding and somehow they will disappear on their own and I won’t have to don a gas mask and hazmat gear to remove them.

I no longer go out to turn the Christmas tree lights on. I’m afraid of the pumpkins. But someday I’m going to have to face my fear and bag these babies up. It wouldn’t surprise me if maggoty things are living under them. I’m paying dearly for my laziness.

Pray for me.

It is amazing to me what I’ll stick up on this blog for a laugh. Those of you who have been expecting my prom pictures will be disappointed. I can locate only one of them. I found two, but they’re both of my junior prom. The senior one is nowhere to be found, though I promise to keep looking.

For now, you can have this.

It’s my 7th grade school picture and if it isn’t obvious enough, this is what NOT to do if you have very curly hair. I did not walk around with a book on my head all day. I did not sleep upside down. I fought the curl and this is the result.

I basically had an afro growing up. You cannot straighten my kind of hair because it’ll get really mad at you for going against the natural flow of things, revolt in the worst way, and come out looking like this.

In my earlier years, my poor mother would try to make me look presentable for school and have to contend with the kind of curls that don’t like to be bothered in any way, shape or form. Every hair on my head was anti-comb.

She would often use a detangling product called Johnson & Johnson No More Tears. It was a lie. There were many tears. "Mom!!! You’re killing me! Stop it!" You can’t get a brush or comb through an afro, and no spritzing from the J&J bottle was going to help.

She resorted many times to the only thing that got rid of tangles and my general rat’s nest. She cut the angriest curls out. Wouldn’t you like to see a picture of what that looked like? Let me keep looking….

——

I bet the people over at humor-blogs have good hair.

No, not this kind of lost.

A totally different, addictive, bizarre kind of lost. The one you’ll find on ABC, January 31. Lost is back!

Herewith is an 8 minute and 15 second recap of the first three seasons. If you’re a Lost buff, you’ll get the meaning of an 8:15 clip.

Now listen to me. If you haven’t seen the show, but plan to catch it on DVD, DO NOT WATCH THIS. The clip will spoil everything for you.

My husband hit the jackpot when he married me. Not because I’m a knockout (I’m not), and not because I can cook (I can’t). And certainly not because I need to keep up with the Joneses (that’s a race that never ends).

The reason he hit the jackpot is because I’m extremely low-maintenance. I’m a no-frills, simple girl who doesn’t need to have all the latest designer fashions, jewelry or expensive home interiors.

Which is why it makes no sense to me that it took three weeks, hours of online searching and nine stores to find a simple pair of black shoes. The kind of simple shoe that kindergartners would draw when asked to draw a shoe. The process shouldn’t have been so hard, it wasn’t fair and I’ve begun to think there’s a conspiracy against me.

It starts out with the day I discovered the heel separating from the right shoe of a pair that I loved. The shoe went from perfectly normal to crap in about a week. I can’t understand why. Both my legs are the same length, I do not have a limp, and I never ran the New York Marathon in them. Its partner is just fine. Righty has issues.

Just when I thought I should enter it into Ripley’s Believe It or Not as the Freak Shoe of a Freak-Footed Woman, I was relieved to read I’m not the only one with inexplicable clothing disintegration issues. My friend Jeff has a peculiar problem with wearing out only the left knee of his jeans. We are two peas in a pod. Abnormal, anatomically-disadvantaged peas in a pod.

Soon after my shoe started falling apart, I began my search for a replacement pair. Naturally, I thought I could just go online: Punch in Croft & Barrow. Click. Add to Cart. Click. Done. Then I remembered nothing is that easy for me. Not furniture or lamp or cake shopping. What made me think shoe shopping would be any different?

I’m not a total moron. I understand that shoe styles change from year to year, and that if you find a pair you really love, you should buy every single one in the store. Otherwise, you’ll never find them again. I’ve done that in the past with other shoes, but never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine I’d have such trouble finding a pair of plain black, lace-up shoes with a rubber sole. The store I bought them from doesn’t carry this style anymore. Shame on you, Kohl’s. You sold me a shoe I loved and then you took it away.

Here’s my opinion about the state of shoes today. Stores should always carry a base supply of regular shoes that have no buckles, snaps, clasps or adornment of any kind. After that, designers are perfectly welcome to go ahead, take their LSD and make shoes like these. When I did a general online search for "black lace-up shoes," these were among the selections: 

I did not type in Frankenstein, Dominatrix or Elton John. I typed black, lace-up shoes. Period. I fast ran out of patience browsing the 1,001 ridiculous ones and concluded it was unwise to order unfamiliar shoes online anyway. I wear shoes between a size 7 1/2 and 9, depending on the brand. It was best to try them on.

The week before Christmas, I stopped and browsed at six different shoe or department stores. Nothing. I would come home each night shoeless, and Dave would give me a "You’ll do better tomorrow" hug and hope a simple black shoe would magically make itself known to me.

After four days of striking out, I awoke one morning to find Dave had left this note for me on the fridge. Funny guy.

I gave up searching for a while, then the day after New Year’s, we traveled around town hitting up all the stores I hadn’t been to before. I thought I’d get lucky at a new upscale outdoor mall nearby. According to their website, they had ten shoe stores. Ten! This HAD to be the place.

I hit up L.L. Bean first and thought I had a winner. I picked out a black, lace-up shoe I marginally liked, and stood there waiting for a sales person to help me. At least three other women stood around with a single shoe in their hands waiting for someone to assist them, too.  I could see never getting waited on, so I gave up and put the shoe back on the shelf. Strike one.

We sought out the rest of the stores at the mall. Turns out, of the nine remaining stores, one sold only sneakers, one was a men’s store, three weren’t even in business yet and the other four only sold dress shoes. I hate you, 10-shoe-store mall! Strike two.

We soldiered on to the one remaining place to get shoes: a crowded, high-traffic mall that I never shop at unless I’m desperate. I hit up a JC Penney’s first and while perusing their selections, I overheard a woman complaining to a salesman: "I bought my favorite pair here last year, and you keep changing the styles. I can’t find them anywhere now!" I turned around to her and said "It’s a conspiracy." The salesman, wearing a pair of nice, plain black shoes, looked at us weird and offered up nothing. We ladies just shook our heads and walked away. Strike three. I’m out.

Wait…. maybe not.

There was one other department store in the mall I hadn’t checked — Boscov’s. This time, Dave didn’t come into the store with me, since he was tiring of our strike-outs. Better to just sit in the car, avoid my madness, and pray to himself that when I emerge from the store, I would be carrying a bounty of shoe boxes and we could get on with our lives, full to the brim with simple black shoes.

I hit a home run. Right out of the park!

Boscov’s had a simple black pair of shoes I loved. Not even lace-up! I almost kissed the salesman when he brought me this pair of shoes and they fit perfectly! Hello, Clark’s "Music"! My only disappointment was that they had just one pair in my size. No matter. I can order more from them online, knowing the brand and size. My prayers were finally answered.

I’ve just ordered two extra pairs, and as long as my feet don’t suddenly get fat, I’m golden. I’ll be in plain black shoes for years to come. Like everything else in my shopping life, this was an ordeal that tells me I’m being punished for something. I just don’t know for what.

Imagine if I was high-maintenance……

I have characterized The Junk Drawer as cheap therapy because it’s where people can come to unload and unwind. Rants are more than welcome here. I have them, I support them and I listen to them because I feel other people’s pain. I believe ranting is how we survive our days.

This is why my sister, Ann, felt it entirely appropriate to call me up today without so much as a Hello, and rant thusly:

Me:  Hello?

Ann:  I’m never going back to Wal-mart as long as I live. Do you HEAR me???

Me:  What happened?

Ann:  I left a freaking bag over there and now I have to battle traffic to go get it!!! I got home and was looking for all my shampoos and stuff and I realized I left it there!!!

Me:  Mm-hmm.

Ann:  You know what the problem is?

Me:  What?

Ann:  I’ll tell you what it is. It’s those stupid bag carousel things that the cashier puts your crap in and when they spin that freaking thing, your bags are out of sight and you don’t know how many you have to take and they put like only two things in each bag trying to match up similar items.

And then you have like seven bags to carry and God, I wouldn’t care if they put a turkey in a bag with my lipstick! Just put it all in one bag and I’ll throw it over my shoulder like Santa Claus and hightail it out of there!!!!

Me:  Breeeeathe. Release. Breeeeeathe. Release.

Ann:  Why do they even have those things? What ever happened to just throwing the bags on a flat bin thing like every other store has? Huh? Then you could see all your bags and not forget any. God!!! I can’t believe I have to go back there! You know how bad their parking lot is!!! I wanted to come home, relax, eat and lay on the couch. But nooooo! I have to go out in this freezing cold wind and battle through all the people to get to my stupid bag. I’m never going there again. Do you HEAR me?

For the record, my sister is a kind and reasonable woman who is only rattled by forgotten, loosely-filled bags.

Oh, now wait a minute. Ann just called back with an update. This next rant is worse than the first and I have to hold the phone a foot from my ear because there’s a TNT explosion coming out of it.

Ann:  Do you freaking believe this!??! They didn’t have my bag!!! They told me to go to the stupid Returns counter behind a line of people. I’m not making a return! I’m picking something up! I flagged down a lady and begged her to check for a bag that I just called about. She brings a bag over, I look inside and IT’S NOT MY STUFF!!! It’s somebody’s else’s shampoo! It’s Pantene! And mine had Sunsilk! And there’s other junk in there that’s not mine. Oh my God! Why are there two forgotten bags with shampoo in them? Why is this happening to me?

Me:  Because it’s Thursday?

Ann:  So they say they don’t have my bag, but they told me I could go run around the store and get the items I’m missing and then go get rung up again. Are you freaking kidding me? Oh my God! I just did that 20 minutes ago. I don’t even KNOW what I DON’T have! By this point I look like Elaine [from Seinfeld fame] in that episode where she’s trying to drive her stupid houseguest to the airport. Remember that? My hair’s all over the place and I’m just standing there, like in a bubble. I couldn’t hear anything around me anymore. I thought everything was gonna go dark. All I was thinking is that I had to get home to meet Regan from school!!

Me:  What’d ya do?

Ann:  I left!!!

Me:  So you still don’t have your stuff?

Ann: No! I’m going to call them again and ask them to look again.

CLICK.

Ten minutes later………

Ann:  They have my bag. Wanna know where it was?

Me: Where?

Ann:  Right freaking next to the other person’s shampoo bag with a note on it that read "Ann FakeLastName. Customer forgot in store. Will pick up."

Me:  What are you going to do?

Ann:  Pick it up at 3AM when there’s no people there except for employees!!!! As God is my witness, I’ll never shop there again!! Do you HEAR me? Thanks for listening. I feel better now.

Me:  That’s what I’m here for.

CLICK.

————

So you see. If you’re spending too much on therapy that’s getting you nowhere, just stop by The Junk Drawer. I will never make fun of you for a rant, I will never tell you to lighten up and I will ALWAYS listen.

Got anything to rant about? The doctor is in.

I’m a big fan of trivia and quick-read books. Both loves are satisfied with the Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader series. It helps if you envision me reading them outside the bathroom. Promise me you’ll do that.

The Uncle John book series offers speedy stories covering a number of topics including science, history, pop culture, geography, biographical accounts and general stuff you were too lazy to look up and learn more about. Most articles are three pages or less, for readers "on the go," as the authors put it. For a really quick read, you can stick to what they call "runners" at the bottom of each page: one-sentence trivia nuggets that are fun, curious and sometimes stupefying.

On this second day of 2008, I’m a little late to the game on reviewing 2007.  I thought it might be fun to revisit some of my favorite posts from the year, as they relate to some of the Uncle John’s trivia nuggets found in the Curiously Compelling edition. Here we go!

1.  How about you? 54% of American kids ride the bus to school. I was in that other 46%, at least in grade school — or hell, as I like to call it. Read it and weep.

2.  The main cluster of riders in a bicycle race is called a peloton. I was once in a bike race with my sister. Down a hill. Fast. One of us made it to the bottom a bloodied, battered mess. And all because of a tasty snack treat.

3. What? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention: Aprosexia is the inability to concentrate. I have it and it’s made worse because I’m plagued by annoying little noises that no one else can hear.

4. Good news for teenagers: There is no evidence that eating chocolate makes acne worse. But seeing hairy chocolates is guaranteed to make you sick.

5.  It is illegal to board a plane while it’s in flight. It should also be illegal to subject passengers to coach if they started out in first-class.

6.  The diameter of the universe is estimated to be 620.000,000,000,000,000,000,000 miles. And I can’t even navigate two tenths of a mile of it.

7.  Animals that give birth to live young are viviparous. Animals who dispense tech tips from their butts are called awesome.

8.  Odds that a sports injury will involve a wrist and hand: 25%. Odds I would do it while sledding on ice: 100%.

9.  If your cat snores, or rolls over on his back to expose his belly, it means he trusts you. If your cat is about to bite the head off a praying mantis, it means you should RUN!!!

10. How about you? A 1,200 -pound horse eats about seven times its own weight a year. So do I.

Happy New Year to all my faithful readers! Thank you for making blogging some of the most fun I’ve had in my life. I appreciate all your support and friendship. Cheers, and all the best to you in 2008!