The Junk Drawer

Living directly under an airport flight path, I periodically have dreams involving airplane crashes. Nightmares, actually.

The last one I had involved a fiery crash and The Three Stooges.

This week I had another one. I was long overdue.

In this episode my husband Dave was piloting a plane with me as the only passenger. Like the last dream, I didn’t sense I was in a plane. It seemed more like I was in a car.

I was lying down resting on a leather bench seat, with a blanket over me. All of a sudden we see two jets nearing us. They flew so close to each other that one clipped the wing of the other, sending them both screaming to the ground.

Dave confidently told me not to worry about our plane and that he would get us home safely.

We tooled around the sky for a while until I noticed we were nowhere near home. We were flying over a big city. A strange city at that.

None of the buildings were made of concrete. Instead, they had rounded edges and were softly colored and flexible. When we flew too close to the buildings, they simply bent out of the way.

The entire cityscape had a GUI-interface quality about it. I realized then that we were in a video game. Awesome.

After we got out of the city, Pilot Dave announced he was leaving the game to return to our house. I told him I’d hoped we’d left the garage door open because we forgot to put the remote opener in the plane when we left.

For the record, a plane does not actually fit in our garage.

I told him I was tired and would be sacking out for the ride home. I also asked if he could swing by Jimmy’s for some hot dogs.

And then I curled up under the blanket, happy in the knowledge that hot dogs were in my future, yet a little confused as to when exactly my husband got his pilot’s license.

I awoke from my dream hungry for dogs and thrilled I survived another plane crash nightmare wherein I didn’t die. Self-preservation is a beautiful thing.

I’ve been blogging over two years now and managed to avoid discussing the topic of farts in all that time. Which is remarkable because farts are hysterical when executed at the right time and in the right place.

At a slumber party? Funny.

In the middle of your wedding vows? Not funny.

There are times, though, when they are both funny and not, depending on where you are positioned in relation to the farter.

Let’s go back to 1990 when I was taking a computer programming class at my community college.

Most of us students were adults earning degrees in evening classes. But one student, though an adult by chronological age, was about four years old by any other standard.

Why? Because he farted during every single class. Out loud and often. With no attempt to muffle.

He sat up front, three feet from the instructor. Every time Farty McFartster let loose up there we shot pity looks at the professor. That man never flinched. Not once. God bless him. He kept right on teaching. Was he fart-deaf?

Meanwhile, the rest of us were dying. We did whatever we had to do. Chomped down hard on a pencil. Put our hands over our mouths to stifle laughter. Or, in some cases, got up and left the room. Usually the ones in direct line of fire.

It was incredible to us that Farty never tried to suppress his air. He’d even lift up a cheek so as to give it a clear and unencumbered exit, without a hint of embarrassment.

During class breaks, some of us would head outdoors to bust a gut laughing about it and Farty would come out and try to join the party. We’d shuffle away from him as a clustered unit. We never allowed anyone to get caught alone with him. There was safety in numbers.

We wondered aloud how it was that Farty would ever get a job in the computing field, or any other, for that matter. We imagined him farting answers to interview questions.

If he did get a job, we figured no one would work within twenty feet of him.

We hoped he’d find at-home employment away from the ears of others, where he could play his fart symphonies to his heart’s content.

Farty, wherever you are, I hope you saw a doctor because somethin’ bad was a-brewin’.

And Farty’s co-workers, if there are any? We’re sorry. We didn’t have the guts to get him an intervention. We just took our credits and ran.

I recently discovered the coolest book called Hello, Cupcake! In it is the cutest assembly of fun and whimsical cupcakes you can make easily with regular store-bought cake, icing, cookies and candies.

Here is my first attempt at making something completely non-cupcakey — spaghetti and meatballs!

First you make regular vanilla cupcakes. Then tint vanilla icing with a bit of yellow food coloring for the pasta. Use a Ziplock bag to squeeze the "pasta" out all over the cupcakes. Go crazy!

Top with Ferrero Rocher hazelnut chocolates dipped in low-sugar strawberry preserves for the meatballs. Finish with grated white chocolate for the parmesan cheese.

Are these not awesome?!

Hungry for a little Italian tonight?

If you have a sweet tooth, these are for you. They are scrumptious! A mess to eat, but who cares? They’re cupcakes! Or are they?

Dear Bravo TV:

Editor for hire. Call me. We’ll talk.

Sincerely,

The Grammar Nazi 

Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick! Will you look at my glasses?

I know I’m not the only one with asymmetrical ears, but this is ridiculous.

Also, the left plastic nose protector thingy fell off a couple weeks ago.

And this is my only pair.

Stepping on them and repairing with duct tape should complete the dork look I’m apparently going for.

We have a winner! Kristin correctly guessed that the What’s That Wednesday item is a metal detector.

The part shown was from the base of the unit. Please don’t ask me what the hole is for. I know nothing about metal detecting except that I’ll never do it again.

My husband Dave spent some time with it a few years back and found a ton of coins, a few rings and incidental items, enough to keep him interested. The most valuable coin he found was a mid-1800s three-cent piece, worth about $75 today.

Me? I tried it once and found a dime and three pennies, worth thirteen cents today. I simply do not have the patience for something like this. After scanning the ground for an hour and not finding much, I quickly lost interest. The device isn’t too heavy at first, but it feels like a bar bell when you carry it around for a while.

Has anyone ever gone metal detecting? Did you enjoy it? What was the coolest thing you dug up?

Thanks for playing! I love this series because your guesses are so good and are a blast to read. Kristin, I’ll contact you shortly about your prizes.

You would think What’s That? posts would be easy to do, but you’d be so wrong. I’ve been looking for something to feature for days and nixed a ton of stuff. Muh head hurts. After a long struggle, I found something that made the cut.

This item has the following characteristics:

1. It does something.

2. I used it once and hated it.

Crystal clear, yes?

How to play:

1. The photo shows a small portion of a larger object.

2. First person to guess the object it’s a part of wins a Junk Drawer magnet and a mystery prize.

Most likely a prize involving bacon, since people keep giving me novelty bacon items they find in their travels. My desk drawer at work looks like a deli. Apparently, everyone I know thinks of me when they see bacon. How did that happen?

Go!

What’s that?

UPDATE: It appears I need to give a hint since no one has guessed the object correctly.

Because my brain didn’t hurt enough coming up with this item, I decided to write a clue in the form of a limerick. Limericks are hard to write at 5AM. Just sayin’.

I actually wrote better ones, but they would totally give it away. So here you go. My vague limerick:

You use it not inside, but out.

And hold as you walk all about.

It would be really swell

If it caused you to yell

"I’ve got something here, I’ve no doubt!"

Holy Marge Simpson! Look what blew into my yard today.

I don’t I remember the last time I saw a woman wearing one of these, but there must be at least one bouffant-headed woman in my neighborhood.

If you happen to wear a bouffant hairstyle or something else as worthy of protecting, you may be interested in other products the Betty Dain company makes.

Or not. I’m guessing not.

The Sister Mary Catherine: For when you’re feeling particularly pious on rainy days.

The Wedding Cake Topper: What? Why? I don’t get it. That’s not a cap. It’s a pair of granny panties.

The Bee Keeper: I could have used one of these last week. Of course, no one would have wanted to sit next to me at lunch. But that’s the price you’d pay for the bee keeper look.

The Conehead: For the severely pointy-headed among us.

The Dork: "Trendy and masculine?" Nice try, Betty Dain. Nice try.

Windy, March 2008

I miss you Windy

When I look out on your tree

All I see are leaves.

If you are in there

Can you give us a sign that

You are still with us?

Many of your fans

Wonder how you are doing

I have shed a tear.

Only time will tell

Whether you are still stuck in

Your big leafy tree.

I can’t wait til fall

Then I will know whether you

Are with us or gone.

If you aren’t with us

We’ll always remember you

Our dearest Windy.

Walking down the hall in my building at work today, I ran into three ladies I haven’t seen in a while. They were headed out to the patio to eat their lunches and so I joined them out in the sun for a bit.

No sooner did I sit down to regale them with my vacation details than I heard a buzzing in my ear. I knew it was a bee, but after a second or two, I thought it’d gone on its merry way.

No such luck. All three woman, looking more concerned than made me comfortable, yelled in unison "Don’t move!!!!"

The bee was still there, though now silent. A sitting duck, I waited to get stung.

Mercifully, one of the women swatted it away before the bee could get its stinger positioned for the kill.

Later in the day, I emailed my savior and thanked her for getting the bee out of my hair. I told her how my Monday would have sucked had I gotten stung in the head. My big, fat mop top head.

She wrote me back and said "Just think what the bee was thinking…. "Help me! I have flown into a hair labyrinth and can’t find my way out!""

She’s not kidding. Would you want to get stuck in this?

A Scary, Hairy, Curly, Whirly Thrill Ride for Bees

Somebody oughtta check for Jimmy Hoffa in there.