The Junk Drawer

So how much weight have you gained since blogging?

Me? A whopping 30 pounds and I’m tired of walking around with all that extra tonnage. So what am I doing to lose?

• Walking two miles most weekdays and eight on weekends.
• Eating a healthy breakfast and lunch, with fruit for snacks.
• Having a very light dinner.
• Eliminating the Frisbee-sized iced cinnamon bun I used to have twice a week. OK, make that three times.

I’ve had good success during the first month. And rather than mark my weight loss milestones by a straight number of pounds, I’ve decided to mark them by the number of Stinkys I’ve lost. Stinky, my beautiful, sweet kitty, weighs 5.2 pounds.

My progress so far:

And to the guy who asked me last week if I was losing weight, you have no idea how close I got to jumping in your lap and giving you a big sloppy kiss. Thank you!

So you know how you get so busy and you need underwear, but never have time to drive to Wal-mart and you hate it there anyway because you have to park five miles from the store, then walk three more to find anything, so you hope that they sell them in your grocery store, only to be disappointed that they just sell socks and you think it’d be a fine idea to sell underwear right next to the toothpaste because they’re a convenience item, really, and it’s not like you have to try them on or anything?

Oh. Just me?

Well, in case you ever find yourself too busy to shop for underpants, the next best place to get them is Amazon. That’s right. I’m buying my underwear at Amazon now. The world’s biggest book seller and purveyor of panties.

Incidentally, if you’re not a teenaged twig, Amazon sells Hanes Women’s Comfort Soft Low-Rise Briefs.

They are described on the website as “…… appealing to a broad range of women – from professionals to part-time employees to homemakers. The woman who purchases Hanes Her Way Cotton underwear is typically 25-55, married with children, values pretty things and comfort.”

See how they don’t even call them granny panties?

I love you, Amazon. Screw you, Wal-mart.

This morning at work I took an elevator to a lab I’m responsible for maintaining. Two service workers from a copier rental place got on-board with me.

They asked if I worked in the building.

“Yep. What’cha need?”

“We’re here to pick up a copier in Room 61.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’m headed down to Room 51 myself. I’ll take you to the room.”

We arrived at the pickup location and I unlocked the door for them. Inside was a giant copier on wheels, the kind that can do every task imaginable in addition to copying.

The guys checked the serial number to make sure it was the right copier and it was.

They thanked me for letting them in the room and asked if I wouldn’t mind signing the pickup form.

“Sure. No problem.”

I signed and dated the form and then because the guy wanted to send one to the department who requested the pickup and keep one for himself, he asked me this:

“Do you have a copier I can use?”

Hand to God.

That shriek you heard this afternoon? That was me! I got my voodoo doll! An authentic New Orleans voodoo doll complete with instructions.

Isn’t it the coolest-looking voodoo doll you ever saw?! Oh, it’s the only voodoo doll you ever saw? Me too!

Because I’m a giver, I’m going to let one lucky reader benefit first. All you have to do is drop your wish in the comments and I will randomly pick one winner and see what I can conjure up for you.

Now remember, I told you I would never use the doll for bad, only for good. So none of that “world peace” or “fix the BP oil well” nonsense. Never gonna happen.

If you’re curious, here’s what the instruction paper said I have to do:

This doll is handmade by local practitioners and is “all-purpose.” In New Orleans, we use dolls as focusing tools to bring positive changes into our lives. First, get a personal item (worn clothing, hair or nail clippings, etc.) from yourself or another individual you wish to affect and pin it to the doll (Please be careful not to stick yourself!)

During the waxing moon phase, use the white pin when drawing positive influences to yourself (love, prosperity, etc.) and during the waning moon phase, use the black pin when sending negative influences away from yourself (oppressive people, bad energy, habits, etc.) Remember your karma & try to stay positive.

Now, while holding the doll, in your mind, picture the result you desire (creative visualization). For example, if you need a car, see yourself driving that car. If it’s love you seek, picture yourself with the type of person you desire, doing things you enjoy. You get the idea!

Do these focusing exercises daily, for our specific purpose, until your result is achieved. Remember, true magick (sic) takes time and effort, so don’t give up. Whenever possible, do your magick outdoors to get the power of Mother Nature on your side. You may also add candles, oils, drawings and any other personal items you feel will assist you to best creatively visualize your goal.

When your needs have been met, be sure to thank God, the Universe, the Spirits, or yourself (depending on your perspective) for the Blessings you’ve received. Always have an “attitude of gratitude.” We thank you for your patronage and wish you good luck & wisdom in all of your magickal pursuits!

—-

Isn’t this fun?! I can’t wait to try my voodoo doll out on someone. I promise I’ll try very hard to grant your wish.

* Please don’t send me your hair or nail clippings. I’ll make do without. Really. Don’t send parts of you.

Get wishing!

While searching online for voodoo dolls at lunch today, a co-worker friend walked into my cubicle with a laptop she wanted me to configure.

We exchanged pleasantries, I unboxed the laptop and then casually mentioned I’m looking for a voodoo doll. Specifically, one from New Orleans, where you can get authentic ones blessed by a real voodoo practitioner.

Discriminating, I am.

I go on to explain that I don’t want to spend too much money on my doll. Wanting a voodoo doll is a little insane, but spending fifty bucks plus shipping is insanier.

So my friend, who totally gets me and doesn’t think it’s odd I am in want of a modestly-priced voodoo doll, grabbed her cell phone and got tapping.

She texted a friend of hers who happens to be visiting New Orleans this week.

She told her I was in the market for a voodoo doll and could she please shop for one.

The friend, finding the request not the least bit disturbing, says she can and asks Looking for anything special?

No, just keep it under $20.

Male or female?

Unisex.

Done.

I love that I have friends who have friends who can acquire voodoo dolls at a moment’s notice. I love that I had such luck with timing. I love the technology that made it possible to grant my wish in two minutes flat.

But I especially love that I have readers who won’t ask me why I want a voodoo doll.

Don’t worry. Hand to God, I’ll only use it for good. Unless you accuse me of witchcraft or something. Then you’ll get a pin in your eye.

The good thing about carrying a purse is that I have everything I need in a day whenever I need it. The bad thing is that I have everything I need in a day whenever I need it. It’s freaking heavy.

Granted, I’m not one of those suitcase purse kinds of women. That’s just crazy. Nor am I like the Sherpa woman I work with who walks into the office a few times a week carrying no less than four kinds of bundles: her laptop case, her regular purse, her knitting materials bag and usually some books. She’s a librarian Sherpa, so I can make a concession for the books.

That’s not me. I need exactly one bag and I’m thoroughly annoyed if I have to grab a bigger sack to put the purse and other things in. I want to be a minimalist, like my husband, who gets to walk around earth carrying a five ounce wallet.

Anyway, I’ve got a bag big enough to hold my wallet, a digital camera, my sunglasses case and about a thousand envelopes with what I think are important papers in them, but never find the time to actually check. At least they’re all rubber-banded together so that I look some measure less disorganized when I go hunting for something.

Even though I don’t think I have too many items in my purse, the weight of it all means that everything is laying at the bottom of it and I still need to dig around. Since I have nothing unnecessary in my purse, this annoys me to no end.

Tonight when I went to the vet’s to pick up medicine for one of my cats, I got in line behind a woman who had her purse slung over her shoulder and in that purse sat a dog.

Cute little thing. Really little. About the size of the turkey sandwich I had for lunch today.

The woman was trying to check out, pay her bill and be on her way. But she just could not get to her wallet. Dig, dig, dig. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

She says “I don’t know why I can never get at anything in here!”

I’ll tell you why.

Because there’s a dog in your purse.

So tell me, ladies, do you hate your purse? Love your purse? Do you wish you could walk around with only a wallet? Do you wish you could carry a teeny-tiny dog around in it, ignoring the snickers of people like me who think that’s hysterical?

And that statement is: We have too many blankets.

Ay-carumba! They’re just the ones in the living room. There are at least eight more upstairs.

Yet each one of these is here for a reason.

From top to bottom:

#1 traveled downstairs one day and got stuck there. I believe it got washed and never made it back up. You know, because it’s so hard to carry a blanket up fourteen steps. My back!

#2 is for Shadow, our cat who likes to sleep on the red chair’s ottoman.

#3 is for Lucky, our cat who likes to sleep on the red chair.

#4 is for me to cover my legs at the kitchen table where an A/C vent blows arctic air right on me.

#5 also came down for a washing and never made it back upstairs. Oh, so heavy!

#6 is for covering a chair you can’t see. Another spot where Lucky likes to nap.

#7 is for me to nap with. Used in conjunction with #4 because one blanket is not enough for napping, so says me, the Napping Queen.

Can anyone beat this? Extra points of you own a Snuggie. Subtract points if you have one for your dog.

Thanks to an alert reader, who didn’t chomp down and ask questions later, we have a new submission to the Food That Looks Like Stuff series.

Behold!

Peanut butter-filled pretzel face

Oooo! A photo shoot? Lil ‘ol me? I must be special! Wait… what are you doing?

CRUNCH.

I’m always on the lookout for food that looks like stuff, so if you find something, please visit my Contact page and email it in!

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On another note, I want to thank everyone again for your positive response to the Windy story that aired on NPR Monday. I’ve had the time of my life and I’m so happy to have readers (and new followers!) like you. This is what makes blogging so incredibly fun and fulfilling.

You guys are THE BEST!

Welcome NPR listeners! Please click here to access all the posts about Windy, the plastic bag stuck in a tree since March, 2008. The posts appear in reverse chronological order.

To all my regular readers, big news! I had the honor and pleasure of being interviewed by Melissa Block of National Public Radio (NPR) for a segment on All Things Considered, which aired today.

Visit NPR’s website to read the story and hear the interview (available at approx. 7PM EST).

Who knew our little Windy would go national? If we can’t get her out, I’d say that’s not a bad consolation prize.

I want to thank everyone who’s followed and enjoyed Windy’s story. Getting on board with it helped make the saga something worthy of all this attention. I have the best readers in the blogosphere and no one can tell me otherwise.

Thank you! Thank you!

I picked up takeout food last night at a restaurant and found a sad little Bird of Paradise drinking his sorrows away over at the bar.

What’s up little buddy?

What’s up? Just have a look.

Did you see all that? And what happened at the end?

Yeah. Brutal. What gives?

I don’t know. I tried everything. I cleaned my pad, swept the patio, buffed my tree branches to a nice shine and burned up the dance floor. Then nothing.

You know, I’m terribly impressed. You’ve got some mad dance skills.

True dat. I practiced at the studio for like eight weeks to get that down. I wanted to give up in week three, but my trainer encouraged me to stick it out. Six days a week. Sore feet, sore wings, sore neck. And for what?

I’m sorry.

She didn’t even wait for my finale. I was planning on throwing in a moonwalk and then a little soft shoe at the end. I would have killed.

I believe you. So is this something all Birds of Paradise do in your forest?

Please.

I’m the only one who took the lessons, went to a stylist, got a Feather Smoothie, consulted with a clutter expert, and bought a Swiffer. You could eat bugs off the floor of my tree house.

I don’t understand why she turned you down. You did everything you’re supposed to do. You smell nice, too.

I have my suspicions. Word on the tree is there’s some shinier bird over in 2C with a really big wingspan. He just moved in and all the ladies are curious. Got a Wii, high-def TV and a mini-fridge filled with spiders. Pffft. He’s got all of the fluff and none of the substance.

Well, all I can offer is my sympathy. You have it hard. Are you going to put on another show for someone else?

I don’t know. I may take off a couple weeks. I’m frustrated and tired. Trying so hard to get a date is for the birds.

Hey, did you see that?

See what?

That chicklet over there, by the jukebox. She winked at you.

Uh. Maybe you should leave now. Might be able to salvage this night after all.

Sure thing. Just don’t try so hard. Sometimes the ladies like a more relaxed approach.

Relaxed? Hell, no! Drop some coin in the jukebox for me, will ya? I feel a dance coming on.

The economic downturn hits hard at Plymouth Yarn Company. Two different babies cost more to model sweaters than one. But it’s all good. The lad can use his earnings to pay for therapy in 20 years.

What say you? Same baby?

This post is more for my benefit than yours.

I’m taking a two-week vacation in early June. Everyone who knows it asks me where I’m going.

While I’d like to say I’m jumping on a plane to take me to some faraway place, the truth is I’m headed to a dark, dank corner of my basement.

I plan to lock myself down there for at least the first week so I can finally get my book off the ground.

No sunlight.

No fresh air.

No email.

No cats.

No husband.

No TV.

No distractions.

Just me and my laptop.

I’ve been wanting to write a book for the last couple of years and I settled on the subject matter only recently. You’ll probably all be mad at me for not telling you what it’s about, but I’m superstitious and feel that if I tell you, I’ll jinx myself.

I also feel if I announce publicly that I’m going to venture into book territory, I’d better actually DO IT.

So send me your good vibes that despite being surrounded by dusty old Christmas decorations, furniture we don’t use, kitty litter boxes and bugs falling on my head, I will still feel creative enough to knock out a few thousand words a day of decent book material.

I consider this venture the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but probably the most rewarding.

If you’ve ever tried to write a book, I’m open to advice and suggestions, but I’m scared you’ll all tell me it’s a waste of my time.

You know what?

Lie to me.

Sometimes luck taps me on the shoulder, introduces itself and shakes my hand.

Luck paid me a visit in 2004 and sent me to Paris.

I was sitting at my desk at work, fighting an urge to raid the snack machine downstairs. The urge won and so I grabbed my wallet and headed out the door.

On my way downstairs, I spotted a fraternity student sitting at a table by the elevator, selling raffle tickets for a charity fundraiser.

The sign on the table read “Win a Trip to Paris!”

Curious, I walked over to the table to get more information.

“Tickets are $5 each,” the student said.

Digging through my wallet, I was disappointed to find that I had only a few singles and change I planned to use in the snack machine.

“Will you be around later this week?” I asked.

“Yep, til Friday,” he said.

“Good.” I told him I’d be back later with enough cash in hand for two tickets.

The next day I found the student, paid him $10, filled out a form and received my tickets. A note on the back said the winner would be announced a few weeks after that, and it included a URL with more raffle information. I stuck the tickets in my wallet.

Weeks went by.

And nothing. No phone call to say I had won. Oh, well, better luck next time, I thought.

But then I remembered the tickets in my wallet and thought maybe the winner would be announced on the web site for the contest.

Maybe someone I know won. That’d be nice for them.

And so I pointed my browser to the web site, which revealed an animated image of the French flag.

The caption read “Click here to see who won!”

I clicked on the flag.

The French national anthem began playing over my speakers and the image dissolved gradually to reveal this:

I immediately felt a rush of adrenalin and almost started crying. It was me!!! At least I thought it was me. Feeling like a game show contestant who’d just won a car, I thought for a moment maybe I wasn’t really staring at my own name on the screen.

Winning big things makes you take leave of every last one of your senses.

So I did what crazy game show contestants do. I got up and, arms flailing, ran over to a woman who worked outside my office. “Nancy!!!! Go to this web site!!!! Does it say Kathy Frederick on your screen too?!?!?”

I swear to God I did that and you can ask Nancy. Just don’t ask her how stupid she thought I was at that very moment. She’s such a nice lady, she wouldn’t be honest with you anyway.

There we were, looking at my name and listening to La Marseillaise, letting it all sink in.

Wow. A trip to Paris for ten bucks. You just can’t beat that.

I called my husband and didn’t even say hello when he answered. I simply shouted “Pack your bags! We’re going to Paris!”

He let an expletive slip and we hooted and hollered for a good five minutes, not believing my good fortune.

I contacted the student organization who sold me the tickets and they apologized for not notifying me by phone earlier. They confirmed my prize, told me to contact travel services to make arrangements and the rest is history.

It was the trip of a lifetime.

And all because luck pulled up a chair and gave me a fine How d’ya do?

Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!

Babs of Beetle Blog was the first to guess correctly that the What’s That object from yesterday was a boot spur.

I found the item in the woodworking shop of a friend of mine. He had all kinds of cool, antique, things in his shop hanging from the rafters (which explains all the dust on it that many of you pointed out). What keen eyes you have!

Way to go, Babs. You asked for the black cat bandaids instead of what was up for grabs. I’m nothing if not flexible. I’ll see that you get the kitty bandaids.

Thanks for playing and submitting such good and funny guesses, everyone!

And Cardiogirl? Six guesses? Maybe I’ll get you those cupcake bandaids simply because I’m afraid you’ll die without them.

Until next time!

I’m just under the wire for a What’s That Wednesday. I suspect someone will get this immediately.

I have one regular reader who should recognize it instantly. Do you wonder if I’m talking about you?

How to play:

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

2. First person to guess the object wins a Junk Drawer magnet and a box of cupcake, pickle or Jesus band-aids. Your choice.

Go!

What’s that?

I think we can all agree that Monday is the crappiest day of the week.

Not today, peeps!

Our Windy celebrated her 2nd birthday today with cake and curious visitors. The only downside is that when some of them saw how ragged Windy looked in her picture, they sadly proclaimed “Awww, that’s too bad.”

See?

It didn’t help that I hadn’t planned very well for the party and couldn’t get helium balloons in time to pick up before work today. So she got the Lazy Person’s version of party decorations. Lame balloons inexplicably shaped like light bulbs and no streamers or party hats.

Hey, at least I remembered the candle.

After I filled my belleh with cake, I decided to jump on the Zazzle web site to see if my delicious custom-made bacon shoes were due to arrive soon. I’d been tracking shipment for days, knowing a package would land on my porch this week.

I give you, the most awesome shoes known to mankind.

A little too big for my feet, but maybe if I fry them, they’ll shrink up to my size.

Admit it. You’re jealous.

Tuesday will be the happiest day of the week for me, as I plan to wear these babies to work tomorrow.

How many people do you think will try to have me committed?

Probably as many as will want to cut off my feet and steal them.

Hee.

Yeah, those would be tire tracks.

Not folded.

Not spindled.

Not bent.

Not torn.

Driven over with a two ton vehicle.

Dude, bad day?

At first I thought the envelope was special, you know, embossed with a pretty pattern of some kind. The tracks were so evenly distributed I thought my brother’s birthday gift thank you card was kinda cool.

And then I realized someone was just hatin’ on my mail.

I hope when they deliver my Ked’s bacon sneakers, they arrive in one piece.

That’s right, folks. I bought bacon sneakers.

Certainly, no one who reads my blog with any regularity will be surprised by this fact.

Fashion show to follow.

Oink.

Because I really wanted that.

Also, scoops should come with a seat belt or something. It just went sailing.

Crap.

You guys are always pulling through for me. Last night I was tearing my hair out trying to come up with a post. I remarked on Facebook that my husband suggested I get in the zone by drinking a beer. Which is bad because I hadn’t had a beer in ten years and a little would go a long way. And then I wondered whether drunken posts were any good.

In the end, I decided to go to bed early and hope that a post came to me while I slept.

That never happened, but look what did! I woke up and checked email to find this photo taken by my blogging bud, Moonshadow. She writes:

“Sorry I didn’t get this sent to you sooner since you were have so much trouble coming up with a post. A week or two ago I had made chef salads for supper and my husband called me to the table saying I needed to take a look at “this face.” So I told him to hold it right there so I could get a picture, that I knew someone that loved food that looked like something… so here you go.”

Thank you, Moonshadow! It’s just what the doctor ordered. I love that your husband noticed the face and that you thought to take a picture for me. If you don’t already have a Junk Drawer magnet, I’ll pop one in the mail for you as a big thank you!

Oh, and your chef’s salad looks delicious, what with all the BACON!

Tell me, did the little egg scream when you ate him?

Geesh. It’s not like this restaurant was the epitome of fine dining. Actually, it’s more a bar than a restaurant. Whatever.

For the record, I ordered from the weenie drink selections with pride.

I’ve been following the blog Bent Objects for a couple years now. The man behind the blog, Terry Border, is an uber-talented photographer and artist who marries everyday objects and wire to tell a story.

Some of his pieces are funny, some are heartbreaking, some are twisted and a few have taken me a beat to figure out. I love art that makes me think.

Terry recently published a book of his works called Bent Objects: The Secret Life of Everyday Things. Some pieces are from the blog, but many more are brand new. Congratulations, Terry! You’ve achieved something that most bloggers only dream about. I’m just a wee bit jealous. OK. A lot jealous.

I cracked open my copy today and leafed greedily through it much like a bag of potato chips. One led to another and before I knew it I was stuffed and happy. I wish I had half of Terry’s wit.

With his permission, I’m republishing a few of the pieces that appeared on his blog to let you get inside Terry’s head. Enjoy!

Pretty Cupcakes 

Yesterday’s Flowers

Horror S’morer

For a fun and funky look at more of his pieces that didn’t make it into the book, check out his rockin’ promo video:

Holy cow! It’s been over a year since I last posted something for the Food That Looks Like Stuff series. It’s not that I haven’t been looking. I’m still searching for the elusive Virgin Mary on a Pop Tart.

I’m pleased to bring you a submission that ends the yearlong drought. Thank you, reader Louise Pena!

Coffee No. 4

Wouldn’t this cup of coffee go great with Bagel #9?

If you’re a new reader and want to see some past foods that look like something, check these out:

• Compilation of items over several months
• Sleeping Basset Hound God-Zeus Chicken Finger
• Mr. Potato Head
• You Say Tomato, I Say Diablo
• Do You Know the Muffin Man?
• Say Cheese, Cracker

Is cursive handwriting dead?

Ah, I remember fondly learning how to write cursive in grade school. My teacher used a funky metal contraption that held three pieces of chalk in alignment and then she dragged it across the blackboard to prepare for our lessons.

The first step produced this:

The second step was to go back and erase part of the middle line to form dashes. This way, you learned where your lower and upper case cursive writing went in relation to the dotted line.

I barely write in cursive anymore, mostly because most everything I write, save grocery lists, is on a PC.

When I do, something strange happens. I tend to mix printed letters with cursive ones. Why? No idea.

Here’s an example:

I don’t know if schools even teach cursive writing anymore. If you have kids in grade school, do they come home with practice lessons in handwriting? Someone please tell me it’s not dead yet.

So, other than signing your name on paperwork, do you write cursive anymore?

Each September my town hosts the Celtic Classic Highland Games & Festival, a celebration of Celtic culture with music, food and athletic competitions involving big burly men.

In kilts.

Here’s an example of a kilt-clad burly man throwing a 56lb. (25.5kg) block across the grass, as I stood on the sidelines hoping the officials knew when to duck.

One of the longest food lines was at this stand. If you don’t know what it is, I suggest you stay ignorant. It’s not for the weak of stomach.

If you don’t look it up, perhaps you can guess what’s in it by looking at it on a plate. And, no, it’s not impolite to ask a complete stranger if you can take a picture of his haggis. As long as you ask nicely. I didn’t even have to flash my blogger badge.

Looks a little like cat food, no? Meow.

About a thousand men walked the grounds in really gorgeous kilts, some with cute knees to match. It’s easy to get used to seeing men in skirts when they look like this.

Not half-bad!

Or this. Beautiful!

But then there’s this. GI Joe kilt!

And then ….. well. This.

Gotta hand it to this guy. Nobody’s gonna make fun of him for wearing a skirt. Nobody.

Go ahead, Miss Kathy. Take your pick.

One of my fondest memories from childhood involved Sunday morning visits to a bread bakery. Not really a bakery, but a factory, where bread was baked and packaged up for delivery to grocery stores and other outlets.

My Dad owned a tire service business and one of his customers was Leone’s Bakery in Easton, Pennsylvania. His company serviced their fleet of delivery trucks and my Dad was good friends with the owner.

One of the perks of that friendship was being invited to come in on Sunday and buy fresh bread that came right out of the ovens. A six-year-old Kathy always got to join him.

The things I remember most after I stepped into the factory were the heat, the noise and the aroma of delicious fresh bread that wrapped its arms around you and wouldn’t let go. It was intoxicating.

It could have been freezing cold outside, but the moment you walked into the factory, you were in a flour-dusted Sahara. The bakers wore thin white uniforms, always short-sleeved, no matter what the temperature outside. I pitied them in summer months.

And the noise! The machinery that processed the dough and then sent it through an open-ended oven was massive and LOUD. Clang, click, SHHHH. Clang, click, SHHHH. At the start of the assembly line, little chunks of dough were cut and dropped onto the belt where metal ice cream scoop-like arms would come down upon them, grab them and give a vigorous shake, until they formed little balls of goodness.

In perfect formation, the bread balls would move down the conveyer and into the oven, where they would bake up and fall out on the other side as crispy, delicious Kaiser rolls.

My Dad’s friend would hand me a bag and tell me to go pick out a dozen of the best rolls in the bin. I know it sounds silly, but getting to handpick seconds-old, piping hot rolls out of that bin made me feel special. It was something my friends didn’t get to do because their Dads didn’t have an “in” with a bread guy. Score!

You can probably gather by now that I was happy with the simple things in life, still am. Two more things were about to happen that were such big deals to me in my young life.

After my Dad and I said our good-byes, we got in the car and my Dad would let me turn the ignition to start it. Me! Making this big machine start up all by myself! CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-VROOOOOM!

Good job, Kathy. Good job.

When we got home with our bread loot, some Kaisers and some French bread loaves, my next little excitement was to deliver one of the loaves to our neighbor Mrs. Meyers.

A sweet old lady, she would greet me at the door with a smile. Morning, Mrs. Meyers! I have your bread! She’d take the crispy loaf from my tiny hands and deposit back two shiny quarters for my trouble. My Dad would never let Mrs. Meyers pay for the bread, but he did let her pay me for delivering it.

Thank you, Kathy. You have a good day now, OK?

I will, Mrs. Meyers!

And off I ran to my house to drop the quarters in my piggy bank and then rip into our own loot. Nothing better than still-warm, crispy rolls broken apart and slathered with butter or stuffed with cheeses or meats.

Another Bread Sunday under my belt. I don’t remember when we stopped going together, but those trips with my Dad were some of the best in my kid memory.

Thanks, Dad, for making me feel like a big girl in my six-year-old head.

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?

Yep, that’s my first cell phone from circa 1995. I actually used it in a grocery store to make the emergency call to my husband that cell phones were built for: regular or Double Stuff Oreos?

I’m pretty sure that’s when the whole Wanting to Punch People Who Use Cell Phones for Unnecessary and Stupid Calls thing started.

Sorry. You can blame me.

As you know, Windy had a birthday yesterday, complete with cake and balloons. Someone who saw me walking into the building with obvious party items asked me "Whose birthday is it?"

I couldn’t bear the thought of responding "A plastic bag," so I said simply "Someone special." It wasn’t really a lie, was it?

I emailed colleagues from my building to let them know they should come to my office for the cake cutting at lunch time.

But then something strange happened.

I heard a rustling coming from the cake room. A plastic kind of rustling.

Somehow Windy’s friends must have intercepted the email.

That’s right! Our little Windy turns one year old on Wednesday and I’m celebrating the day with cake and a party.

It’s not every day I order cakes for non-human entities. The poor guy at the bakery didn’t know what to make of it when I handed him a picture of Windy to put on it.

We spent a lot of time discussing what color and decorations I wanted on the cake. I thought violet and green would accent her tree quite nicely.

When we finalized the order, he said "And you want this written on it?" He held up the note I gave him at the start of my insane order.

Him: "Happy Birthday…. um….."

Me: "Windy."

Him: "Riiiight."

He told me it would cost a little extra to put her picture on it.

I said, "That’s OK. She’s worth it!"

I skipped away to do a little grocery shopping and I’m pretty sure he waited until I turned a corner, then called security and told them "Crazy lady in Aisle 9. Keep an eye on her."

I’m taking the cake to work so I don’t eat it all myself. If you work with me, swing by my office Wednesday for a piece in honor of Windy. It’ll be the craziest thing you do for a long, long while.

I mean it, too. I thought I was ordering a quarter sheet cake, but when I picked it up, I realized I ordered a half sheet. Seriously. SHOW UP FOR CAKE!

And try to excuse that the baker put Windy’s picture on upside down. Poor Windy. Stuck for a year and now hanging by her toes.

“Happy Birthday Windy, Sorry you’re still stuck!”

I’ll be away from the blog most of the week and won’t be able to check in very much. So I’m offering up a little game you can play without me. I stole it from Sandee at Comedy Plus, who stole it from someone else.

It’s very simple. I start the game off by listing two words or phrases, like waffles or pancakes, and you pick the one you like better. You can explain why if you like.

Then you leave two more words or phrases for the next commenter to choose from. If someone derails the game, will someone please jump in and get it back on track? Thanks!

Ready? First comment: Facebook or Twitter?

Go!

Listen up, folks. I have to report for jury duty tomorrow. I was hoping they wouldn’t even want my number, but I checked the court’s website and I’m in the range of like ten thousand people they want to show up.

I promise I will do my civic duty to the best of my ability should I get selected. But, seriously. Would you want me on your jury, knowing I have done the following?

1.   I’ve been taking pictures of a plastic bag in a tree for nearly a year.

2.   I ate a Beggin’ Strip dog treat.

3.   I once apologized to a plumber for a fart my cat left.

4.   I see things in my food.

5.   I find shredding paper one of life’s greatest joys.

6.   I left outdoor pumpkins to rot in a Christmas display.

7.   I interviewed a dog.

8.   I got lost two tenths of a mile from my house.

9.   I seat-belt my food in the car.

10. I marvel at my cats’ pee.

Really, now. Don’t you think I should get a pass for all that? All aboard the crazy train!

I hope this What’s That? challenge is so hard it makes you insane.

I hope you curse me, scream at your computer, get a migraine and vow never to play this game again. Sounds like fun, huh?

How to play:

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

2. First person to guess the object it’s part of wins either 500 Entrecard credits or a Junk Drawer magnet, your choice.

Go!

I drove to work yesterday funkin’ out to this song. I guarantee it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is the basis for something I learned about my father and so you should really just roll with it.

My dad is an awesome dancer. An awesome polka dancer, and so is my mom. When they take to the floor, they’re stunning and mesmerizing and everyone wants to be like them. But they never will because they all suck at it and that’s why polka has a stigma. You’ve only seen it done badly.

The above song, Hot in Here by Nelly, played at a family birthday party some years ago and everyone under 40 stood up and rushed the dance floor.

And then my 80-year-old dad followed us. Oh no. No, no, no. He does polka. He doesn’t do hip-hop. He shouldn’t do hip-hop.

Ask me how scared I was.

But Dad put us all to shame. We watched in utter awe of his moves. He had the rhythm down perfectly, gyrating arms and legs appropriately – no embarrassing spasms of any kind – every move in time with the beat.

We were blown away by the sight of my Dad funking out and doing it right. And that’s when I realized what I thought was my God-given funkaliciousness wasn’t divine at all. Clearly it was my Dad who gave me the gift.

Oh, yeah. I got the funk in me. And so it was, on the way to work with this song blasting, I started feelin’ it. Small movements at first, but then it overcame me.

I would car funk dance for the next six miles.

How is car funk dancing done, you ask?

Crank the music and follow along.

Sway left and right, shoulders moving forward and back. Tilt head two beats on the left, one on the right, one on the left, then two beats on the right. Rinse and repeat.

Bob your head forward and back at a 45 degree angle. Go ahead. Try it now.

Jut the chin forward in time with the bass, like the Mick Jagger chicken dance, but without the flapping wings part.

You may alter your shoulder activity after a while, such that you are “shrugging” them in tandem while bobbing the head about.

You may or may not involve the arms and hands as part of your funk driving. There is the safety issue, but that’s what knees are for. Drive with them if you must.

Bring your hands forward, clench them in fists, arms raised as if you were boxing. Now continue to bob the head, left and right shoulders alternating forward and back.

How do you look now? Are you feelin’ it?

Remember, funk driving rules state that you ignore other drivers staring at you. You must car dance uninhibited. Live a little.

And thus concludes today’s lesson. Dad, thank you for giving me the funk. And Nelly, thank you for starting my day off right, even though an hour later it turned to crap.

Have a funky weekend, peeps!

Seriously. We’re gonna do this now?

We had wind gusts over 60mph today. Three more bags joined Windy and New Guy (look on the left for the brown bag that’s a bit hard to see).

I’m out of my mind at this point. I never thought we’d have more than Windy to look at. I cannot bear to watch five bags hanging onto branches for months to come.

As for the poll to name the new bag, I hope you won’t be too mad if forego the poll and pick a favorite right now. Ben Barden knocked it out of the park with "Gusty." I think a lot of you liked that name, too.

Thank you for all your fun suggestions. I especially liked that many of you were happy for Windy because she got a date for Valentine’s Day. Now she has a posse.

As for naming the others, let’s just call them "The Others," mmm-k?

How weird would it be if I called our Facilities Services department and asked them to get the four they can reach out of the trees, leaving only Windy behind? Do you dare me?

I’m still in shock. Another bag flew up into a tree at my building.

All fresh and new and STUCK.

So which one of you put it there? I know you’re all trying to make me insane. You know this means war.

At least our Windy has a friend now. FOREVER.

I’m serious. If I find out one of you put it there, I’ll hunt you down and make you climb up and get it out. And I don’t care if you break all your bones when you fall out.

You know what this means now? New bag needs a name. Drop your suggestion in the drawer and I’ll run a poll after I’ve picked a bunch that I like.

I wouldn’t have believed this if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. Windy got a mate.

This is a recipe for my world famous Serviceable Post. It’s what you get when I only have tidbits that don’t make real posts. Consider it the casserole of blogging.

Combine all ingredients in a word processor on medium speed and let sit. Time to prepare: 30 minutes. Serves everyone.

Ingredients:

1 observation: I have a new man in my life. His name is Brawny. I always thought Brawny paper towels were like Bounty’s little brother who always stood in its shadow. I was wrong. Thick and strong, these manly paper towels can stand up to any mess and then some. Brawny, I’m sorry I never gave you a chance until now. Forgive me?

1 question: Every morning when I get in my car to drive to work, I have to raise the rear-view mirror. When I leave work, I have to lower it. I’ve read our spines can elongate as much as an inch overnight while sleeping. I’m guessing this is why all the readjusting. Do you have to do this too, or am I the only one with a yo-yo spine?

1 celebrity sighting: A friend of mine got in line behind Paul Sorvino at the grocery store last night and got up the nerve to talk to him. She’s still kicking herself for saying she loved him in the TV comedy Still Standing. He’s thinking What? No Goodfellas?

A pinch of stupid: I bought a thin baguette at the store yesterday, still warm and crispy out of the oven. I carried it to the checkout register under my arm, it broke in half and the top part fell out of the bag and onto the floor in front of about twenty people.

A clerk was summoned to get me a new one and when he brought it over said with a wink "The crust is really crisp. Be careful." I guess my guns are stronger than I thought. Apparently you do not want to mess with me.

 2 gloves: My husband’s had a cold for a week and is trying not to get his germ-ridden fingers on anything I touch. Thanks, dear. But isn’t it hard to type like that?

By the way, I’ve been downing Airborne tablets like I do whenever I’m around sick people. I know the FDA says it’s a crock of poo, but I haven’t had a cold in almost five years. Coinkydink? I think snot.

Today marks the 300th day that our bag Windy has been stuck in the tree outside my building at work. I’ll have you know I braved single-digit temperatures and an intense fear of heights to get this shot.

No one is surprised anymore to see me out on the roof. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

Enjoy!

I’ve been sitting here, what? Three years, three winters, and someone finally realizes I might be cold? I shouldn’t complain. At least someone thought to give me the scarf. It’s soft and beautiful, but a blanket and butt-warmer are really what I need.

I also can’t turn my head, my legs are killing me and my sciatica is really acting up. Beyond the pain, I’m extremely bored looking at these few squares in the pavement. For three days in the fall, I stared at a wet leaf that just wouldn’t blow away. Drove me insane.

Last winter when a guy cleared snow, he almost ripped my foot off with the plow. Easy, dude. I live here!

My nose runs a lot in this weather and I know you can’t really see my purse, but there are Kleenex in there that I’ve been dying to get at. They’re so close, yet so far.

Two nice ladies walked by me today and took my picture. I wish they would have sat down and talked to me because, twenty feet away, this is my permanent company. He’s been asking me out for a year. Why am I a creep magnet?

Hi! I’m a dork.

Blogger’s Note: Click here to see reader Richard Wall’s wonderful interactive panoramic view of this location.

If anyone has Wii Fit, please share your experiences. And injuries, if any.

In this season of giving I bestow upon you, my faithful readers, a gift like no other. And that gift, of course, is BACON.

I found a cool site that will baconize any web site simply by adding its URL to the end of it.

Here is the site: http://bacolicio.us/

If you’d like to see The Junk Drawer in all its bacon glory, click this: http://bacolicio.us/http://www.junkdrawerblog.com

Freaky and delicious! Walk back from your screen and it looks even more realistic.

You’re welcome.

Of the 70+ guesses made on the Sunday What’s That? post, only one was correct. A hearty congratulations goes to Becca of the Gray and Becca blog!

The object shown was part of a paper towel holder.

The hint I gave you might have thrown you off track. I said it may or may not be Christmas-related. Do you hate me? I didn’t mean to confuse or trick anyone. (Yes I did.)

And now for something totally random!

I hate my own name today. There are five Kathys at work with whom I conduct business regularly. It’s a nightmare when several of us are involved in the same issue, as was the case today.

It’s pretty much a given that half the emails I read or send today will be from a Kathy or to a Kathy. In one exchange I talked to four Kathys in two minutes. I’m all Kathied out! Kathy Kathy Kathy! Doesn’t my name sound weird when you hear it over and over?

My phone just rang. It was from a Kathy. A Kathy who doesn’t work here. That’s it. I’m being stalked by Kathys.

I’m posting this What’s That? item on a Sunday morning so that all you early risers can get in a guess before all the other sleepy heads. It’s your reward for getting up at an ungodly hour for a weekend day.

How this works:

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

2. First person to guess the object it’s a part of wins either 500 Entrecard credits or a Junk Drawer magnet, your choice.

What’s that? Hint: It may or may not be Christmas-related!

Two of my favorite things: Christmas and bacon. Does it get any better?

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and BACON!

Note: The whole ensemble was crushed up, tossed in Thanksgiving stuffing, baked and enjoyed. Rudolph, we hardly knew ye!

A hamster I know is having a terrible time of things. His name is Seamus (pronounced SHAY-mus). See, he used to live in this house until yesterday.

It was a rockin’ awesome house. A colorful, activity-filled pad that made him the envy of all his friends. Seamus used to have notorious parties there. The bass-thumping, booze-flowing kind, and a rave or two. The cops came once, but they couldn’t arrest anyone because they didn’t have handcuffs tiny enough.

Seamus’ owner decided that this cage was too hard to clean, and so I joined her on a trip to SuperPetz, where she picked out a new cage that was easier to maintain.

Seamus got an Extreme Home Makeover. And not the good kind. This is Seamus’ house now:

* Not Seamus

See how it’s a piece of crap? See how Seamus’ mother doesn’t love him anymore? Even though it’s been explained to him that the downturn in the economy is not the reason he was moved out of his condo and into slum housing, he’s having a hard time understanding.

Don’t worry, Seamus. I’m calling PETA in the morning.

—-

Humor-bloggers love their pets.

In a  previous post, I made mention of getting my head stuck in a wrought iron fence when I was a kid about the age you see me pictured here. All of my memories of it come from the memories of family members who repeatedly bring up the story at holiday and other gatherings. Always when there are enough people around to hear the story and laugh at me.

Yeah, well. I’m having serious doubts that this event ever took place. Why? Because my own mother can’t remember the details. And neither can my one of my sisters who’s a little older than me and likely was there when it supposedly happened.

I think this has all been made-up so that, as the last born child in our family, there will be always something to ridicule me about ’til the day I die. Stop picking on me already!

The story goes that I was playing around on this porch. I got the idea to shove my head through the fence (the fence at the top, not on the steps) and then couldn’t pull it back out.

It’s been said that the fire department had to come rescue me and that they had to cut out one of the rods to make enough room to release me. Indeed, one of the rods was missing for years. But something tells me that it fell out or was taken out for some other reason and that this whole story was concocted to validate my lifelong suspicion that I have a gigantic freak head.

So what is it, my dear siblings? Did I really get my head stuck in a fence, or has this been a 40 year joke at my expense? Was there some truth to it, but over the years it gathered steam? I call bullsh*t on the fire department showing up.

I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell the story again at Thanksgiving. I can withhold pie, you know.

p.s. If that picture doesn’t prove I’ve been a cranky pants my whole life, nothing does.

I knew when I started the What’s That? Wednesday series, I figured there’d be times when I’d forget to post one on Wednesday. As it’s turning out, not only do I not always have an item for a Wednesday, I feel like posting one on Saturday. I’m scattered like that.

So here goes, your weekend version of What’s That? Wednesday:

How it works:

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

2. First person to guess the object it’s a part of wins either 500 Entrecard credits or a Junk Drawer magnet, your choice.

What’s That?

Today also brings us our first Comment Extravaganza winner, Bernie O’Hare! In my last post, I wrote that my husband would pick a random comment from each post leading up to my blog reaching its 10,000th comment. The winner receives a Junk Drawer magnet. Dave picked #23.

Bernie runs a very popular political blog called Lehigh Valley Ramblings. He stumbled onto my blog through the blog of newspaper columnist Bill White, who mentioned The Junk Drawer. When Bernie spotlighted my post about grade school memories almost a year ago today, it gave my readership a nice shot in the arm and I’ve never forgotten what that did for me.

I share this history with you because it illustrates how much sheer luck is involved in growing your blog. If Bill White hadn’t mentioned me, Bernie never would have found me and then a year later he wouldn’t have suggested me to our regional paper to be a member of Valley Blogosphere. I’m eternally grateful for the new exposure, both in print and online.

So if you’re a struggling blogger and you think no one’s reading you, don’t give up. Keep writing your best stuff and you never know when someone with influence will find you and give you a boost. It can come from anywhere, anytime. Be ready for it.

CONTEST CLOSED. We have a winner!

Here is a flower arrangement that my husband sent me to work on our wedding anniversary last week.

It’s a lot like another one he sent me that had thin branches jutting out of it, one of which almost took out an eye when I got too close.

I do not know how or if I’ll get it in my car to bring it home.

When I’m working at my desk, its appendages seem to move in my peripheral vision and it scares me.

It’s near impossible to water because it’s jam-packed at the vase neck. And the cat’s in the way.

And while we’re on the cat, I swear its eyes follow me around my cube.

If I’m not mistaken, a flower arrangement is supposed to make me happy, not freak me out.

A little smaller next time, dear. And not so horror movie. I promise I’ll appreciate the gesture just as much.

I’m pretty sure it can strangle me when I’m not looking.

I’m happy to announce the winner of this week’s What’s That? Wednesday contest. New reader, ethanator1088 of PWNED Video, was the first to guess correctly that it’s the strike plate of a stapler. Congratulations! As the prize winner, you have your choice of 500 Entrecard credits or a Junk Drawer magnet. I’ll contact you shortly.

Because Shieldmaiden96 of Dispatches from the Northern Outpost guessed further that it was the Swingline model 545, she can have a magnet, too. I’m equally scared and impressed that she knew that.

Now, I decided to close the contest a little early because of the flood of stapler guesses. So what you’re all saying is that these are too easy, right? I’ll have you know that the photos are reviewed by my husband and, this time, my sister and niece, who said "Oh, that’s too hard." Clearly not.

Since you guys are so smart, the next one will be impossible to guess. Do you hear me? IMPOSSIBLE!

Today’s post also includes an update on our Windy, stuck in the tree for 228 days now. I took this video out on the roof of my building.

If you watch carefully at the end, you can see that Windy was a little embarrassed by being a Walmart bag, knowing how much most of us hate them, and she covered up her name. It’s OK, Windy. We forgive you.