The Junk Drawer

In an unreliable and totally made up survey, when a group of 100 women were asked to name the most uncomfortable piece of clothing or accessory that society expects them to wear, 79% of them said high-heeled shoes.

Most of my imaginary study group were wearing said heels and half of them slipped them off during questioning because their feet were blown up the size of bread loaves and the group got really unruly when danish they were promised for their time never showed up.

Anyway, I’ve been thinkin’ about what men would say is the one thing society expects them to wear that they wish didn’t have to.

That thing has got to be the necktie.

As for me, I hate, hate, hate anything around my neck. I will allow a winter scarf when it’s cold, but none of my shirts or blouses have necks on them. I need to breathe, people.

A turtleneck? Kill me, why don’t you.

So men. Here’s where you get to bitch and moan. Exactly how much do you hate wearing neckties?

It’s gotta be some kind of hell, always worrying it’ll fall in your food or get caught in something, not to mention choking you all day long.

Do you pick out your own ties? Do you give any kind of crap about what tie goes well with what suit?

Is the first thing you do when you leave the office undo that bastard?

I don’t feel sorry for men very much, but ties? You win.

However, I will say that women have you beat on the hosiery front. We will always have you beat on constricting sausage-making legwear. That and the aforementioned spikey, toe malformation-making footwear.

I want my old feet back. Just sayin’.

Dear Heavenly Father,

We thank You today for getting Kathy safely to the muffler repair shop, following what sounded like cannon fire coming out the back of her car as she drove on a busy highway.

We thank You for giving her the ability to train one eye on the road in front and the other in back, just in case the muffler decided to divorce itself from her car right then and there.

We thank You for giving her steadiness under pressure the entire seven miles to the shop, four-ways on, driving only 15mph and annoying the hell out of everyone who followed her.

She made it there without so much as a stink eye.

We thank You for roads not too bumpy, places to pull over to let others pass, and for a suspension that she later learned kept the whole broken pipe assembly from dropping out.

We thank You for allowing Kathy to release her Kung Fu grip from the steering wheel upon arrival at the shop, and for her dear sister who picked her up so she didn’t have to waste money on cab fare getting home.

Speaking of money……

We do not thank You for the $600 bill, but all things considered, at least Kathy’s not shopping for a new car tomorrow.

Amen.

There are a lot of things that irritate me. In fact, I have a whole category on Junk Drawer devoted to “Stuff I Hate.” That doesn’t sound healthy, does it?

Anyway, fewer things annoy me more right now than the jingle at the end of the Empire Today carpet commercial that runs in my area. For all I know it may run nationally and everyone else’s ears are bleeding, too.

Or maybe it doesn’t bother you and I’m the only one who needs to sign up for crankiness management classes.

Mind you, it’s not the whole commercial I hate. It’s just the jingle at the end.

The saving grace is that I can see or hear the commercial coming on and have ample time to dive for the remote to change the channel or mute it.

So what’s wrong with the jingle?

It’s a singing phone number jingle and I hate those so much that I want to cry. I know. That’s not a sane reaction. I shouldn’t be this bothered.

But I am.

What’s worse is that I still have a problem when I’m visiting my mother and it comes on her TV.

There, I’m in a Remote Control Unawareness Zone.

It seems to move a lot. At any given time, I don’t know where her remote is, so I can’t get to it fast enough to change the channel.

And then I have to hear it against my will.

I have to hear this.

And I hate it.

Hate.

It.

So.

Much.

The singing phone number jingle:

Also? Empire people? You think you’ve won by writing a singing jingle? You think that phone number of yours will get stuck in my head and you’ll be the first ones I call when I need carpeting?

No. I specifically avoid you, avoid hearing your number, and now you done gone and made me blog about how annoying it is.

It’s a wonder you can sleep at night.

Now where do I sign up for those Cranky McCrankster classes?

I generally avoid writing posts made up of a stream of random thoughts, but you know, sometimes you just have to write anything.

So here goes, the brain dump:

1.  2011 was the year I ate a PBJ for the first time in my life. 2012 is the year I ate scrapple for the first time ever.

Liked it, didn’t love it. I wanted it to be more like sausage, but it wasn’t firm enough. Little crispy on the outside, loosey-goosey in the middle. Made much better when lying in a pool of maple syrup, though. That is all.

2.  Today while leaving work I spotted a student practicing walking on a tightrope pulled taut between two trees, only inches off the ground. Wanted to ask “What for?” but was too lazy to walk over and probe. Cool, though. Rock on, Sidewalk Wallenda!

3.  On the way home from work, a tiny piece of plastic bag blew into my car and settled on my dash. Then it blew out the other window. I thought of Windy and smiled.

4.  The other day I freaked out when I found what I thought was some kind of mutant curly worm behind the toilet bowl. So I let it sit there until I got the courage to investigate closer.

It wasn’t a worm. It was a large shaving from my eyeliner pencil. Why was it there? Because I sharpen the pencil over the toilet bowl so the shavings can go down a pipe instead of shaving it over my trash basket, which has open slats in it and I’m always thinking the shavings are going to fall through the slats and onto the floor where I’ll have to clean them up later.

So instead of shaving the pencil over a trash can, I’m shaving it over a toilet, where debris falls on the floor, I still have to clean it up, but now I have the added stress of thinking it’s a bug that will jump on my face and burrow a hole through my eyeball.

Also, how does one miss a target the size of a toilet bowl? Oh, wait. Men do it all the time. Never mind.

5.  For all you cat owners, I just read a post on a pet website that claims to sell an “unbreakable” plastic pooper scooper. You know what’s unbreakable? A slotted metal spoon you’d use for spaghetti. Seriously. Plastic always breaks, and unless your cat leaves 10lb deposits, a metal scooper will last you forever and then some. You’re welcome.

6.  After watching an interview with a very pregnant Jessica Simpson yesterday, I had a pregnancy dream last night. I was close to delivery and the only thing I could think of was “We don’t have any diapers.” So in my dream I went on Facebook and asked all my friends whether I should buy Huggies or Pampers. The winner was Pampers.

7.  Expired Greek yogurt has the consistency of regurgitated oatmeal. Discovering you’ve eaten expired Greek yogurt is scary and keeps you close the bathroom. Just in case.

8.  I hate whistlers. There is nothing fun about hearing a person whistle. It doesn’t make me think “Oh, what’s he so happy about? I would like to feel happy too, so I shall whistle as well.”

It makes me want to roll up an old sock that my cat plays with, encrusted with kitty spittle, and shove it in said whistler’s mouth.

The end.

OK, bees, wasps and any other flying things that try to hitch a ride in this….

Your lives will end in a very bad way ……

Yesterday I went outside to enjoy the balmy weather we’re having, and took a short walk around the courtyard of my building.

Within seconds I was hit in the head by a directionally-challenged wasp. Peripherally, I saw it coming in for a landing, and then heard it pierce my wall of curls.

Then silence. Did it die on impact? Is it still in there, wondering why what he thought was a shrub is so soft and smells like Pantene?

I flicked and fussed and shook my head until I was sure it was out.

I walked back into my office and met up with a student assistant who had just started his shift.

Trailing behind me was a client who followed me into the office and started chatting with the both of us.

I turned away from them to log into my PC and heard the client ask “Is that a wasp up there?”

Oh, for crying out loud.

I knew instantly I hadn’t gotten it out of my hair and that it must’ve hitched a ride with me to my office. It was clinging to the ceiling, surely perplexed by his new surroundings.

Big mistake, buddy.

It took ten minutes of my student’s merciless swinging, swatting and smashing to finally get it injured enough to stay on the floor.

A fighter, he was.

After a few pitiful wing waves, it gave one last gasp under my bookcase, where it shall remain. Because me no likie bugs, dead or alive, and I ain’t touchin’ that thing. I can barely even look at the picture of it.

Incidentally, killing wasps and photographing them is now considered “other duties as assigned” to my work study student. Thanks, Chris.

Wasps should really consult with the bees in the neighborhood, since they too have been victims of my Venus Flytrap head.

Bugs, fly with caution. Just sayin’.

Honestly.

I don’t know how anyone tolerated texting in the old days. And by “old days,” I mean last year.

You know the way, don’t you?

Press the number 8 key on your phone once to get a letter “T.”

Press the number 4 key on your phone twice to get a letter “h.”

Press the number 4 key on your phone thrice to get a letter “i.”

Press the number 7 key on your phone four times to get a letter “s.”

Press the number 4 key on your phone thrice to get a letter “i.”

Press the number 7 key on your phone four times to get a letter “s.”

Press the number 2 key on your phone twice to get a letter “b.”

Press the number 8 key on your phone twice to get a letter “u.”

Press the number 5 key on your phone thrice to get a letter “l.”

Press the number 5 key on your phone thrice to get a letter “l.”

Press the number 7 key on your phone four times to get a letter “s.”

Press the number 4 key on your phone twice to get a letter “h.”

Press the number 4 key on your phone thrice to get a letter “i.”

Press the number 8 key on your phone once to get a letter “t.”

Press the star key to get to the punctuation menu for a “.”

Today I texted with the contractor we hired to work on a bathroom. I set out to tell him to arrive at my house at 11:30 and I would leave work and meet him there.

It took me so long to type that message, I had to change the time to 11:40.

I hate texting with my Playskool phone because not only does it take me forever to tap out letters, I must use proper punctuation, spelling and capitalization. I also don’t use “2” for “to” or “u” for “you.”

Shut up. I know I’m making it harder than it has to be, but you gotta admit it’s pretty ludicrous to begin with. Now somebody buy me an iPhone with a data plan and make it snappy.

Happy Thanksgiving blessings to everyone! May your house be full of fun and laughter, your plates be overflowing and your pants be all stretchy like.

Amen.

I just experienced both the best and worst clothes shopping trip in the span of two hours.

The best experience was jeans shopping. You read that right. It is possible to shop for jeans and not cry the whole time.

I was delighted to find that because of my weight loss, I can now move down another size in my jeans. I know exactly the style to buy that fits my freak body. Lee “Relaxed Straight Leg – At the Waist” medium length jeans are made for me.

Ladies, if you carry more weight on your bottom than on the top, try those. And don’t let the “straight leg” worry you. In reality, they’re more a boot cut, which is a better style for women shaped like us. You won’t get the dreaded peg leg look.

So I’m sifting through the wall of Lee jeans looking for my size and I can’t find them. Why? Because every other woman where I live is my size, apparently.

I take the style I want in a different size to the counter and ask the saleswoman to order my size in that exact cut, length and wash.

She enters the information in the register and determines that she can’t order the wash I want, dark stone, because it’s not available.

Poo.

She tells me she’ll try several different search methods to find them, but I’m sensing I’ll be out of luck the longer this process continues.

But then. Then! She says “Wait right here. I have one last place to check.” She returns a couple minutes later with my exact size, cut, and wash that I want, telling me there was a single pair in the back room.

Thank you, JCPenney’s Clarissa! You made my day.

High from my successful jeans shopping excursion, I went on the hunt for some summer tops. And then my world crumbled around me.

I hate shopping for tops because I dislike my arms and need something to accentuate my smallish waist, so I tend to stick with one style that is structured enough to lay well on the hip, give me shape and form and cover most of my beastly arms.

I found one such top after looking through hundreds. Hundreds, I tell you.

I try it on and love it immediately. But I notice it’s had its price tag ripped off. Why? Why, God, must you let me find the one top I love that will give me trouble at the register?

And trouble I got.

The saleswoman sees it’s missing its price tag and she looks at the manufacturer’s label, thinking she can look it up at the register.

She cannot.

Why?

Because, she says, “This isn’t ours.”

“What?”

“This isn’t our merchandise. We don’t sell this brand.”

“But I found it on a rack in the store.”

“But it’s not ours. Where did you get it?”

“You mean out of the hundreds of tops I looked at? Uh. How ‘bout over there in Kansas. I have no idea where I got it.”

She checks with another saleswoman, who agrees they cannot sell it to me because it’s not theirs.

BUT I FOUND IT IN YOUR STORE!!!

I am flabbergasted. It takes me months to find clothing that I like and that flatters me and I’m standing there holding the perfect garment and yet I cannot buy it.

I consider for a moment asking if the three of us can make up a reasonable price and just call it a day.

But they are not budging. They will not sell me the top.

I was so tired and disgusted by then, all I could ask was “How do I get out of here?”

They pointed the way out of the store that sells clothes you can’t buy and left in a huff.

Without the pretty turquoise, structured top with the lovely neck line.

Tell me, Boscovs salesladies. What are you going to do with that? Throw it out? Because you probably could have charged me a made-up price of eighty bucks, pocketed it between yourselves and I wouldn’t have said a word.

For now, I’ll have to keep wearing the crappy clothes I hate and think about the top that could have been.

Honestly. Have you ever heard of something so stupid?

At least I won the jeans war. And I didn’t cry once.

Length of time in tree: Six weeks

Approximate height in tree: 25 feet

Store of origin: PathMark

Yes, it’s in Windy’s tree.

No, I’m not happy about it.

Yes, I want to get it out.

No, I don’t know how.

Yes, it’s really twisted up on there.

No, you can’t knock it down with a rock.

Yes, I hate PathMark now.

No, you can’t name it.

Really, we’re not getting cozy with this thing. I might contact a guy in New York City who’s aware of the Windy saga.

He owns a company that makes and sells extension poles with a grappling hook on the end, made specifically to extract bags from trees.

Nevermind. I just checked the price of the poles and I can’t afford one.

I guess we’re getting cozy with this thing.

God help me.

Today I had an ear lavage. The word lavage is derived from the French verb laver “to wash.”

An ear lavage thus means “to drown through an opening where only a Q-tip should go, if that.”

Last weekend I developed what at first seemed like a cold, but turned out to be only a cold wannabee. Some sniffles for a day, some sneezing, no cough. In the end, just clogged ears.

My doctor says “Could be allergies. You might be one of us now.”

Yeah, me.

She recommended I have my ears irrigated to eliminate wax build-up as an issue and I agreed.

A nurse came into the room with what can best be described as Thanksgiving dinner supplies.

A huge turkey baster, some plastic mixing bowls and a tablecloth.

In one bowl was what I thought must be a gallon of water, the other one empty.

The turkey baster kinda scared me because I know this woman had plans to squirt all that water into my ears until my brains came out.

“Have you ever had an ear lavage?” she asked.

“Yes. Once. And I didn’t like it.”

“Most people find it enjoyable,” she countered.

“I’m not most people. Something must be wrong with most people.”

First she prepped the equipment, then she asked if I could pull my hair back so it didn’t get wet.

“Uh. I really can’t because once it’s shellacked like this, it doesn’t move. But I’ll braid it.”

Done. The back is braided, but the top is not and now my head looks like cotton candy on a stick.

The nurse cloaks me with the plastic tablecloth to keep the water from spilling on my clothes. I’m asked to hold the empty container up to my ear to catch my brains as they fall out.

Then instead of asking me to sit on a chair that’s way lower than the elevated exam table, she climbs up on the table with me and leans in with the turkey baster.

I find this positively medieval and tell her so. She either doesn’t know what the word means or she’s heard it all before because she totally ignored the remark and continued on with Death by Lavage.

Very quickly she starts shooting warm water into my right ear and I want to scream because it’s a freaky feeling and ME NO LIKEY!

But I put my big girl panties on and made it to the end of six or so injections of water where water shouldn’t go.

After each gusher, she looks inside my ear with yet another medieval device and proclaims it “really bad in there” and continues with the torture treatment.

Each time, more of the same. Nothing but clear water dribbling into the giant cup I hold to my ear.

Where’s all the wax she sees in there? Maybe it’s not wax at all! Maybe it’s a T-U-M-O-R! It’s always a tumor! I have a tumor!

After the last treatment, she looks again and says wax is still “way back there.”

I disagree that what she’s seeing is really wax, because all of a sudden my ear pops, a little water comes out and I’m almost totally clear now.

I believe what the nurse saw was the part of my brain that’s suspicious of nurses who stick turkey basters in people’s ears.

She does the other ear and this time, and after 7 or 8 tries, some gross globs of wax come out and she shows it to me as if I might want to confirm that it is, in fact, not brain matter.

See? Not brain!

We’re done now. I’m happy it’s over and I’m pleased my ears are much clearer than they’ve been. I can hear all the voices in my head much better now.

Maybe I have allergies. Maybe I don’t. I got a prescription for a nasal spray because apparently I also have sinusitis. Or a tumor.

So.

Ever had an ear irrigation? Did you like it? Maybe like it a little too much? What’s wrong with you people?

So we have a leak that found its way to our master bathroom and roofers are coming to check it out next week.

The worst thing about that is not that we may find we need a new roof.

No.

The worst thing is that strangers will see my bathroom and so I was forced to clean it, because we all know roofers care deeply about how many hair tumbleweeds are hugging the toilet.

After my mad, spastic cleaning frenzy, I discovered:

1. I would rather be locked in a room for 72 hours with a coke-jacked, no-sleep, machete-wielding Charlie Sheen than clean a toilet again. I hold a lot of respect for people who do this as their day job.

I want to give a medal to the person who had to clean the ladies room where I work when I saw a Tootsie Roll (not the kind you eat) resting on the back of a toilet seat. Some filthy woman either doesn’t know how to sit on a toilet or a key opening on her anatomy is in the completely wrong place. How do you get that on the seat???

2. All those months I collected not-quite-empty shampoo and conditioner bottles and threw them in a pile in the corner was a bad idea. They drained completely. Scrubbing a floor that’s already soapy just makes it soapier and takes hella long to finish. Also, I’m a slob or a bottle hoarder. There were four on the floor.

3. Scrubbing a tub hurts every cell in my body. I will not be able to do this when I’m 80. I’m just going to stop showering. People forgive 80-year-olds who don’t bathe, right? Wait. Would they forgive a 45-year-old, too?

4. I found something unidentifiable stuck to the shower wall. It was bright orange. I don’t use orange products in the shower. I may need to see a doctor.

5. The Dyson doesn’t like it when you suck up half a plush bath mat and then try to pull it out when it’s still turned on. I groaned. It groaned. Also, I dumb.

6. Curious cats who investigate when a bathroom’s getting cleaned, and get in the annoyed cleaner’s way, are wet when they leave. But they take a good lesson with them.

7. Shampooing the carpets in three rooms after cleaning a bathroom, when your body is already cracked in half, is completely moronic, unreasoned and possibly dangerous, but damn if the upstairs doesn’t look like The Ritz.

Let’s see Charlie Sheen do that. Who’s the winner now?

Some bloggers put a headshot of themselves on their blogs, and like me, did so when they started blogging.

Years later, that same picture is still there. For some, they still resemble that old photo.

But not me.

I’m many pounds heavier now than when this picture was taken.

I want to look like my headshot again.

Which is why I joined a health & fitness center last Sunday. Sure, I should have joined long ago for the health benefits, but I admit it was more vanity that got me there.

That’s because I’m speaking at a blog conference at the end of June. I’ll be meeting fellow bloggers who’ve only known me visually by that picture.

When I registered for the conference, I realized I didn’t want to show up and have no one recognize me. Worse, I imagined them huddled in a corner whispering, “Wow. She doesn’t look like I thought she would. Is that really her?”

So I’m doing something about it. Finally.

Every day at 5:30AM, I show up at the gym, shove my stuff in a locker and look in a mirror that faces another and another. The dreaded 360.

I don’t know who that woman is because that’s not who I see when I think of myself.

But the hard reality is that it’s what people see when they look at me and it nearly brings me to tears.

Somehow I’ve managed to look in mirrors past and ignore the obvious. That extra junk in my trunk, the double chin, the tree trunk legs.

You get used to it. I fell into a dangerous habit of thinking “It’s not so bad. I’m not that fat. There are people heavier than me. It could be worse.”

But I’m already worse.

Fifty pounds worse than my perfect weight of 2004.

And so there in the locker room, I reacquaint myself with those extra pounds. Face them. Hate them. Mark their last days.

I do an about face and head through those doors.

I stretch, I strain, I slog, I sweat.

I smile, too.

Because I imagine my old self emerging. A stronger, healthier, thinner me. Pound by pound, I’ll get there.

And then when I reach my goal, people will say “She’s just like I pictured.”

Maybe better.

Wait and see.

I have eyebrow OCD.

No, I’m not one of those women who plucks her eyebrows until there’s no hair left and then have to pencil in new ones. That’s just freaky and wrong.

I will, however, obsess over a wayward, disobedient hair and won’t be able to function until it’s plucked and gone.

You know that hair, right? The one that sticks out so long it starts to curl like a question mark, when all the other hairs are lying down flat like good little hyphens? Yeah, that one.

I did find this, though. It’s a Swiss Army card. I think you use it if your office gets hit by an avalanche and you have to MacGyver your way out.

Lookie here. We have scissors, a letter opener/blade, a pressurized ballpoint pen, a magnifying glass, an LED light, four screwdriver tips and TWEEZERS.

Score!

When I get home to a normal pair of tweezers, I even out and shape up my brows like I should have done sooner.

I make a mental note to buy a spare pair of tweezers so I can keep one at work because I’m pretty sure I’ll see another question mark – or worse, an ampersand – and I want to be ready for that bad boy.

&

Yeah. It could happen.

People, people, people. It’s so simple.

When you stand behind me in the grocery store checkout and you inch your way ever closer to the cashier, and in the process kick my feet, you can avoid having to say “Excuse me” and I would not have to burn a hole through your skull with my angry stare.

I promise you, you will get through the line with all your stuff quickly enough, whether you’ve hopped on my back or not. I prefer you not get all up in my grill and then have to apologize for it.

Here’s today’s lesson: There is an comfortable distance that you should stand behind a person before that person gets decidedly uncomfortable. For me, that’s two feet, not two inches.

You’re not running a marathon, there is no prize for getting to the end of the line faster and all it does is make me want to squeeze your bread until it looks like one giant matzo ball.

Two feet. Not two inches. Got it?

I don’t understand the resistance, really. It’s not like I asked him to shave my legs.

I’ve asked my husband repeatedly if he would help me do something that is impossible for me to do by myself.

When we took our wedding vows, I’m sure there was something in there about helping your wife in her times of need — whether it’s when she’s sick, needs moral support, or if there’s a clog of some horrific magnitude in the shower drain.

But most especially – I’m pretty sure I heard it, right before the death part – he’s supposed to pull gray hairs out of the back of my head where I can’t see to pluck them myself.

Yes. I’m sure I heard it.

Listen. I’m not gray enough to start getting my hair colored, or maybe it’s that I’m too cheap to start laying out fifty bucks every six weeks.

I just want those few suckers gone. I know they’re there, and I need someone to do it for me.

He won’t do it because it’s “weird.” Weird shmeird. Pull ‘em out!

Maybe I should remind him that when we were bride and groom, the operative word there was groom.

Photo credit: Alex Clayton

I used to say the one thing I can’t live without was Internet access. That’s true most of the time, but as of 1:42PM today, the new thing I can’t do without is quick-drying clothes.

Our Kenmore up and died today. Rest in peace, 19-yr-old heavy duty front-loader, model #96273800. You served us well.

The panic didn’t set in right away. For an hour I thought I could manage. Maybe try to dry clothes in it with just cool air. We get cool air. But a single blanket we ran through a full cycle didn’t even get half dry.

I have two options: 1) Buy a new dryer and pray it gets delivered within 24 hours, or 2) Go to a laundromat until it does.

Option #2 is not a happy option. I would rather scoop my eyes out with a melon baller than sit in a laundromat watching my pants dry. And I’m not one of those people who puts their stuff in the machines and leaves to run errands. I have clothing separation anxiety. No, I don’t actually think someone will steal my clothes, but I kind of do.

Also, I feel so weird exposing my clothes in a public setting. Yes, yes, I know I wear them in public. I just don’t want to wash them in public.

This leaves Option #1. And that means I’m taking my sister’s advice and going to the same family-run store where she bought her washer/dryer and got them delivered the same day.

I will be there when they open Monday morning. Waiting with a credit card in hand. I will step inside, point at the first dryer I see and buy it. I will ask if I can have it that day and hug them if they say yes.

If they don’t, then it’s to the laundromat, where random people doing there laundry run the risk of seeing my clothes, and that includes these shorts. Don’t judge me. You know you have something that looks just like it.

Any cashiers out there? Gather ‘round for class. Today’s lesson is brief and simple.

What I’m about to tell you is something you should have learned in cashier kindergarten, but bears repeating.

Ready?

When giving change to customers, always, always, always give them coins first, then place bills on top.

Why?

Because the customer only has so many hands. They need to put the coins in a pocket or wallet. By putting the coins on top of bills, the customer risks spilling coins as they attempt to drop them in whatever coin-carrying vessel they have on their person.

They are likely trying to do this with the other hand holding the thing, let’s say Lay’s Salt & Vinegar potato chips, that they just bought.

I repeat. Do not try to balance coins on bills as you extend them to customers. If you’re having problems balancing coins, what will the customer do?

The customer will spill them all over the counter and the floor, watch a dime and a quarter roll away spastically under a refrigerator, curse you under her breath and wonder why you thought that handing her a shaky pile of bills and coins as though you were passing her plutonium would end well.

So, to recap.

Coins in the palm.

Bills on the top.

Receipt when customer has deposited her change in her wallet.

Class dismissed.

p.s. For an insider’s look at the other side of the equation, check out the most excellent Confessions of a Cashier blog for insight into what it’s like dealing with the general public. This woman has all my pity.

So remember when I was interviewed about Windy on NPR’s All Things Considered program? Yeah, good times baby!

Well, what you don’t know is the day the Windy interview aired, I was interviewed by the Wall Street Journal for an entirely different story. I was pinching myself all over because I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

That morning I received an email from a marketing reporter, asking if she could interview me about the YouTube video I made about the very loud Sun Chips bag, a bag that’s so loud husbands can’t eat out of it near a sleeping baby or their wives will kill them dead.

The reporter found my video online and was putting together a story about the bags and all the people who can’t stand them.

She took some vitals from me, my name, town and blog information and then asked me some questions.

When did you realize the bag was so loud?

As soon as I got it home and opened it. My husband and I irritated each other for a week. You can hear it on different floors of the house.

How do you feel about Frito-Lay’s efforts to improve the environment by making 100% compostable bags?

Great, except I’ll never buy them again. I thought of writing the Frito-Lay people and telling them that they’re losing sales because the bag’s so loud.

[This turned out to be untrue, because I recently purchased a bag, but only to give to a colleague so he could hear for himself how loud they were. When I drove to work with it and went over some bumps, the bag made a noise. Just sitting there, it made a noise. God.]

Do you write companies about products you dislike?

Oh, yes. In fact, I just wrote the Glad Wrap people to tell them they need to help consumers find the end of a new roll. The thin plastic is clear and sometimes you can’t see or feel where the end of it is. They can fix the problem by tinting the end of the roll in some color or attaching a little pull tab.

I went on to say that companies should hire me as a product tester to let them know what will work and what won’t. I would make an excellent focus group participant and they should want me full-time because I would never shut up.

Do you hate a lot of things?

Oh, no! I’m in love with my Dyson vacuum cleaner. In a really unhealthy way. I told her that vacuuming was a joy now, and despite the high cost, it’s worth every penny and she should go buy one. Like right now.

We touched on a couple other things and then the interview was over. She thanked me for my time and said the article would appear soon, but it’s been six weeks and still no story. I think I scared her.

What a loss. Just think of all the people who won’t get the chance to leave comments on the WSJ site, saying how certifiably mental I am.

So that leaves just you guys to tell me so on the blog. But I’m a lovable certifiable, right?

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?

I give up.

This is a picture of our living room “entertainment center,” which I prefer to call the “Ain’t gonna figure any of that out, even if you make me take a class on it center.”

All I want to do is watch TV. Regular TV. With one remote that has power, channel-changing and volume buttons.

Instead, we have:

1. An HDTV set.

2. A surround sound audio system with four speakers and two subwoofers that will shake your teeth and rip your face off.

3. A DVD player.

4. A Wii.

5. Wireless headphones.

6. A DVR.

7. Three remotes, all unfortunately necessary.

I’ve long since stopped trying to figure out how to watch DVDs. I don’t even know if I remember how to operate the Wii. The wireless headphones are a new addition, but luckily, they’re not for me. My husband Dave wears them so I can have some peace and quiet while blogging in the kitchen, which is feet away from this monstrosity.

I hate having to use two remotes just to watch TV, one for sound, another for channel-changing.

Sometimes I think I want to pop in a DVD, but I would need kindergarten instructions and by the time I figure it out, the movie will be free on regular cable.

All I’m saying is that if my husband gets hit by a bus, there’s gonna be one big ass yard sale at my house. I would sell everything for a dollar and not look back.

Do the men in your house have toys like this? Do you know how to operate it all? Do you need an assistant like me? Or does your house have a man cave where all this stuff lives and you don’t have to think about it?

Has anyone bought Sun Chips in the new eco-friendly bag? Ay-carumba!

They are touted as the first of their kind to be “100% compostable.” That’s great, but they’re loud as hell!

I Googled the issue and found a few discussion boards where people left the following comments:

I swear it’s capable of waking the dead if you so much as breath in its general direction, much less actually touch it or reach inside to get a chip.

Just curious about other’s comments on this ear-splitting bag. Is a fully compostable bag worth it if everyone within 1/2 mile knows you’re eating Sun Chips?

My wife was asleep upstairs and I opened the bag in the kitchen and it literally woke her up. Man that bag is loud!

Well, at least the neighbors know you are engaging in the proper consumption of said “Sun Chips”. Next time you go out and pick up your mail just say you had an excellent dip experience.

Sounds like a car crash whenever I go to grab a chip.

I’m all about snacking, but I’d like to do it in peace. Does everyone have to know I’m off my diet?

Have a listen…..

Some of you might know that one of my biggest fears was to fly on a plane all by myself. I managed to show that fear who’s boss last summer when I attended a blogging conference in Chicago. Let me tell you, I felt like a superstar getting that behind me. Kathy, 1. Fear, 0.

Unfortunately, I’ve got other fears, one of them heights, which was triggered when I walked over a bridge with my husband Dave in the Bahamas circa 1995.

We walked along just fine, until Dave exclaimed “Look! The water is beautiful!” I turned my head to take in the view and promptly lost my mind. I had to run over to the other side of the bridge and take a cab ride back.

There were to be no more walks over bridges for me.

Until today.

For years I avoided joining some of my coworkers who would take walks over the bridge for exercise or to enjoy their lunch hours at a summer music festival held every year on the other side of it. I simply could not fathom walking across that bridge. No how, no way.

But it bugged me that I couldn’t — wouldn’t — do something so simple as to walk across that thing. I mean, it’s just a sidewalk, albeit a sidewalk high in the air.

So I made a decision today to join my coworker Heather for a walk around town and a stroll across The Bridge. I’m pleased to report that I made it without crying in hysterics or having a panic attack.

Were there challenges? Yes. Did I sweat like a pig, even though it was only 20 degrees out? Yes. Oink.

If I looked to the left, there was fear of being so high up. Sure, there’s a railing there, but still. It’s the only thing between me and DYING.

If I looked to the right, I felt the closeness and rush of cars whizzing by and worried that I’d somehow fall over the guardrail, get hit by a car and DIE.

I had two choices: either look straight down at the sidewalk or look way, way off to the distance so that I didn’t have either death threat in my peripheral vision. I alternated between both methods until I reached the other side.

And thanks to my trusty co-pilot Heather, who gave me words of encouragement the whole time and notified me when we were and weren’t over water, it was almost a piece of cake.

If any of you have fears that keep you from enjoying life to its fullest, there’s pretty much only one way around it. You have to stare down that fear and kick its ass to the curb.

I know it sounds easier said than done, but I’m here to tell you that I thought I might die today and I didn’t!

Not dying is awesome, but living with one less fear feels even awesomer.

Remember when your TV had twelve channels, 2-13, and that was enough on the dial?

Yeah.

And then we thought it was all cool and progressive to have channels that went up to a hundred or so?

Uh-hmmm.

My cable service just sent some hocus pocus through our receiver and suddenly my favorite channel is 1,129.

Discuss.

A good friend of mine sent her kids off to public school yesterday. This year her school district implemented a uniform policy that the kids understandably hate.

I can guarantee it’s not as bad as the fashion dictated by my Catholic grade school.

The requirements?

Green and gold plaid jumper no higher than an inch above the knee, preferably below.

A choice from a wide selection of either white or green socks.

Shoes judged to be sensible by a panel of nuns.

Failure to comply resulted in death.

The upside is I never had to worry about what to wear any day of the week. For 18 years. The downside? Plaid is dead to me.

If you have school-aged kids, do they wear uniforms? What do the styles look like nowadays? Do your kids hate it? Tolerate it? Maybe even like it?

Dear Bravo TV:

Editor for hire. Call me. We’ll talk.

Sincerely,

The Grammar Nazi 

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.

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.

I once lived in an apartment that saw two kinds of bug infestations. Bees one spring and thousand-leggers one summer. That summer tested me and tested me good.

If I came home late, I feared flicking on the light since the time I found a thousand-legger chillin’ out just above the switch. After that, I kept a little flashlight in my purse to survey the area for critters in the dark.

Another time one fell out of the dishwasher onto my bare foot, which triggered a spastic freak-out dance that my downstairs neighbor later told me made her wonder if I was going to crash through the floor and land in her lap.

The last straw was when one particularly ballsy thousand-legger tried to take a shower with me.

Soaking wet and washing my hair, I turned around and opened my soapy eyes to find a giant specimen crawling up the back end of the tub.

I let out the kind of scream suitable for any decent slasher movie. The kind of scream that comes from deep within and shocks you that you can even make a sound like that. Is that me? The kind of scream that should prompt all of my nearby apartment-dwellers to call 911. Don’t do that! I’m naked!

My first course of action was to pummel that thing into submission by shooting it with water and sending it down the drain. I jump out of the shower and aim the showerhead at my intruder. Die! Die!

What? It’s not moving.

Oh, wait. It is moving. Just not toward the drain.

Oh, nooooo. My little visitor evidently works out at the gym. Pilates much? Every single one of its creepy, crawly legs fought against the current and it was making remarkable progress up the tub wall. Of all the bugs in the world, I get Arnold Schwartzelegger.

A jet stream of water clearly wasn’t going to save me.

I was going to have to crush this thing with my bare hands. Well, not bare. These hands would have to be covered with a half roll of paper towels.

Dripping wet, I run off to the kitchen, trying not to slip on the floor, crack my skull on a counter, fall to the floor unconscious and have a new problem. Not the bleeding cranium, but returning from the ER with the knowledge that the freak insect is still in my apartment!

I pull at the roll of towels like I’m starting a lawn mower and scrape up enough courage to smash that thing with my paw — and then what? Where do I put it? No, not in the toilet. We know now water is no match. It swims!

It needs to go outside. I need an exit hatch. Yeah, yeah. An exit hatch. My bedroom window!

A woman on a mission, I dash to the bedroom with my enormous supply of Bounty towels. I thrust open a window and then head to the bathroom.

Stay cool. Breathe.

OK, Mr. Not Welcome Here, prepare to meet your Maker. And why, by the way, did your Maker make you? Are you good for eating other bugs? Is there something beneficial about you that only entomologists know about? Regardless, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time and you need to die today.

I position the wad of towels over Leggy McLegs and grab and squish with all my might. I spin around, run to the bedroom and toss the whole crushed-appendage mess out the window.

I am safe now. Safe from a thing that weighs less than a postage stamp, yet has the power to make a person a million times its size and weight turn into a quivering idiot. I don’t get it. That. Shouldn’t. Be.

OK. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Taking a relaxing shower. Fat chance of that now or ever again during the Summer of a Thousand Legs.

Epilogue: I moved to a nice, bug-free townhouse that fall and I haven’t seen a thousand-legger since. It is bliss.

A few weeks ago, I glanced out at the back yard and noticed a patch of what looked like weeds. I didn’t think much of it until they started to grow larger like this:

I decided to bring this situation to my husband’s attention and it was only then that I found out he surreptitiously planted sunflowers.

Sunflowers?! How could you?!

I know. I should be glad. Sunflowers are…. well, sunny. And happy. And yellow and bright.

But they scare the crap out of me.

Why?

Because Dave planted them at our old house and at night, in the faint glow of a street light, they looked like PEOPLES!

Big, swaying heads of PEOPLES in the darkness!

So now when these things grow right next to our house, I’ll be jumping out of my skin every time I look out the window.

Would it be bad to call 911 because I think flowers are breaking into my house?

OK, let’s hear it. What irrational fears to you have?

Wow! I gotta tell you guys. Your guesses for the What’s That contest were outstanding! So many good ones, but only one correct answer and only one winner.

The first person to guess the object correctly was Maya, who said it was part of a Brita water filter.

Congratulations, Maya! I’ll be in touch with you shortly about your prizes.

In other Junk Drawer news….

I spent Thursday in a hospital with my husband Dave, who had rotator cuff surgery. Despite an annoying four hour delay, all went very well and he’s coping OK with the pain, thanks to some delightful Percocet.

Commence mini-rant.

There is perhaps no greater annoyance in hospital waiting rooms than a too-loud TV mounted on the ceiling that you can’t turn down or control the channel. That is why I spent most of my waiting time in the cafeteria reading a book in peace and quiet.

After playing nurse and not getting enough sleep last night, I had a doctor’s visit myself this morning. While sitting in the waiting room, I was subjected to the horror that is early morning TV news, complete with inane chatter and all-too-chipper people for eight in the morning.

Is it just me, or wouldn’t people who are probably not feeling well rather just sit quietly waiting for their names to be called? Instead, we had listen to a performance by the Dave Matthews Band outside the news studio. Since when did morning news shows involve screaming loud music before people have had their coffee?!?!

For all the people who hate this sort of thing, I’m pleased to tell you that I risked getting yelled at by the office staff, stomped over to that TV and MUTED IT!

That’s right. I’m a badass. Fear me.

Next up in waiting room annoyance reduction? Throwing my shoes at loud cell-phone talkers.

You’re welcome.

Been three weeks since the day we became one.

Three weeks of sheer torture.

I wake up to it.

I shower with it.

I cook with it.

I go to work with it.

It’s with me right now.

It haunts me.

It’s sneaky. It’s merciless. It’s painful.

It may never leave.

But I don’t want it.

And I can’t take it.

I want peace.

I need to quiet the voices in my head!

The voices of ….. The Pointer Sisters.

Yeah, the song I heard over a grocery store speaker three weeks ago.

They’re. Still. Here.

Someone once told me the best way to rid yourself of an earworm is to give it to someone else.

Else, it’s all yours:

I defy you to tell the difference.

Sesame Street’s Ernie with his Rubber Ducky….. (fast forward 30 seconds past intro)

And my right shoe that I swear did NOT squeak when I tried them on at the store. Why, shoe people? Why?

I broke out these spring sandals yesterday and everyone — I mean everyone — knew when I was on approach.

I can’t sneak up on people anymore. I squeak up on them. Damn shoe.

What’s on Kathy’s mind today?

To my best good friend, Tracey, who threw her back out lifting an object she could have thrown over her head twenty years ago, I’m sorry for your injury, but you’re old now. Welcome to the club.

To the guy who called me today and left his phone number at lightning speed, I didn’t get it. I had to listen to your message three times because you sounded like you had a mouth full of marbles. If you’re leaving me your number, it’s because you know I don’t have it. Slow the hell down.

To my colleague, Heather. Thank you for making a pot of coffee every day before I come into the office. You don’t even drink coffee. You’re good people.

To my cat, Lucky, who insists on burrowing under a blanket on the couch for whatever reason. I do not know you are there. Learn how to make a warning noise or you shall require a visit to the vet to get unflattened. And I’m not so sure they have a procedure for that.

To my other cat, Stinky, who just walked across my laptop keyboard, you know that screws me up, right?

To daylight savings time, you suck. I feel like changing into my pajamas before I even leave work.

To whoever thought of putting bread in a thin bag and then thought to put it in another bag, that’s just stupid. Trust us. It goes stale as fast in two bags as it does in one. One is less annoying.

To that guy who darted unsafely in and out of my lane this morning, it gave me great pleasure to time my speed such that you never got back into the lane and then missed the exit you wanted so bad. Me, 1. Jerks, 0.

And there you have it. Anything on your mind today? The more random, the better.

Boring post coming up. My apologies, but I’m desperate.

I don’t ask for much in this world. I just want my washing machine to clean clothes, my microwave to heat stuff, and my vacuum cleaner to suck up dirt.

It’s not sucking anymore.

At least not very well. We have a cheapo Red Devil vacuum that we’ve had for a couple years. The only benefit is that it’s very light, unlike my former Bissell vacuum that made me feel like I was pushing furniture around every time I cleaned.

But it fails to suck well enough and I want your recommendations on a new one. All it needs to do is adequately vacuum up kitty litter and not spit it back out through the sucky part.

And it needs to have its electrical cord coming out the top, not the bottom.

Look at this stupid thing. See where the cord comes out? Try vacuuming with that. It falls on the floor, I curse, I run over it, I curse, do the mambo trying to get at it, and I curse, all while trying to dodge kitty litter spraying out like shrapnel.

If you have an unhealthy love for your vacuum cleaner, I want to hear about it. Does it make you want to vacuum for the sake of vacuuming? Do you brag about it to your friends? Did you give it a name?

Bring it on. I need the exact make and model. Money is no object. It just has to have a cord that won’t trip and kill me, and it has to suck real good.

More importantly, is it enough to save my retirement account?

The Junk Drawer celebrates its first-ever guest post. Actually, it’s a guest email I received last night from my sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag.

I decided her rant had all the qualities I look for in a blog entry: customer service hell, a hatred for waiting in line, idiots and pizza. And so I give you …

Ann Buys a New Cell Phone 

Gather round kittens, for I have a story for you…

What is with Verizon Wireless? Is this the worst environment in which to purchase a phone AND in which to interact with the buying public?!

First, step right up to the kiosk where there is no way of knowing who’s next. People are swarmed around the counters, all looking, standing, touching, but you have no way of knowing if a person is being helped or is waiting to be helped.

So, you belly up to the counter with rainbows and stars in your eyes hoping that a customer service rep will notice your pathetic-ness.

Next, you have someone’s attention and state your business. In my case, I wanted to purchase one cell phone and one Blackberry. I already knew which model I wanted so we launched right into the TRANSACTION. Fork over your license, birth certificate, cemetery plot deed, and a tube of blood.

During the data entry portion of the program, I begin looking for the bar stools and refreshments. Why must the customer be forced to stand for the entire transaction? I sent Regan for pizza and a soda while I waited for the rep to finish the sale.

In the middle of watching the reps SIT WHILE WORKING, I was informed that the only Blackberry in stock was pink. That was lovely, except I was buying it for Don.

So Jeanette mentions casually that the Circuit City Verizon kiosk in BETHLEHEM has a silver Blackberry that he may like instead. So, after having nourishment to continue making this purchase, we leave the mall and drive to another freakin’ store to pick up the other phone.

As you may know, the Verizon kiosk is located just inside the Circuit City store. I already see five people swarming the kiosk, where only one sales rep is visible.

Let the screaming begin.

At least this place has a sign in sheet. There is one couple deep in conversation with the only rep. He’s got one cell phone on his belt loop, and another in his hand. His wife keeps touching the model phones. OK, can you just pick the one you need. You can read all the features yourself, stop asking questions and buy one, dammit!

While I’m waiting, swear to God, a man is beside me WAITING IN LINE TO PAY HIS MONTHLY BILL!!!!!! He left his house, got in his car, drove to this store, signed a sheet, and waited in line to pay a freaking bill with cash. I’d hate to know what he does with the rest of his time.

So, after waiting 30 minutes, it’s my turn. Yes, my silver Blackberry is sitting on the counter waiting for me. The rep activates the number, answers my questions, and I am on my way home.  Only 2 hours and 30 minutes out of my life that I’ll never get back.

ann of the cell phone bag

Blogger’s note: And now we wait for all the Verizon people to show up, arguing that their system doesn’t need improvement.

While waiting for my car to be serviced today, I had the pleasure of listening in on a meeting between two elderly gentlemen sitting next to me. Complete strangers, I might add.

Since I had my laptop with me, I decided to take minutes.

Old Guy 1: I went to my doctor for stomach problems and he wound up finding I had polyps on my prostate.

Old Guy 2: I have arthritis. Have to get shots every three months.

Old Guy 1: Oh, I have it, too. My feet really bother me.

Old Guy 2: You better believe it.

Old Guy 1: Man, I can’t wear certain shoes. I got rid of the shoes I couldn’t even wear.

Old Guy 2: I like work boots. Can’t wear those either. I wear these (points to sneakers).

Old Guy 1: My feet are killing me. Especially this one (lifts and points to right foot).

Old Guy 2: Unintelligible rambling about pain in another body part.

Old Guy 1: Yeah, probably all that hard work outdoors. My dad died in his 70s.

Old Guy 2: Yeah, but hard work’s supposed to keep you young.

Old Guy 1: I had a dead tree in my back yard. Made my son help me with it. Let me tell you. I was beat for two days.

Old Guy 2: I have a hard time mowing.

Old Guy 1: On Wednesdays, I mow.

Old Guy 2: More unintelligible complaints.

Old Guy 1: My back hurts every day.

Old Guy 2: You ain’t kiddin’.

Old Guy 1: I have such a hard time losing weight (Me, to myself: I hear ya brotha!)

Old Guy 2: I can’t eat bread. If I eat bread, I gain weight right away.

Old Guy 1: That’s my problem, too.

Old Guy 2: I gave it up.

Old Guy 1: I eat a lot of fruits and vegetables. Try to eat lean. My blood pressure’s always been a problem, but my cholesterol is great. 170.

Old Guy 2: Eh, but whatdya gonna do? I figure as long as I don’t have the Alzheimer’s gene, I’m good.

Old Guy 1: Yep. I hear that.

And then my laptop battery died. They went on like this for another ten minutes until Old Guy 1′s car was ready and the duel for the title of  Who’s Got It Worse ended.

God help me. I don’t want to get old.

Shopping for jeans is not for sissies. I spent one and a half hours yesterday trying on thirty pairs of jeans to find one that fit. Yes, thir-TEE!

If jeans shopping were an Olympic event, I’d have won a gold medal.

I beat everyone into the dressing rooms, was able to ignore a screaming child in the store for more than 30 minutes and scored an extra 15% off my purchases because I made a pouty face for not having a coupon. I also lost two pounds by the time I was done trying them on. I was a one-woman Dream Team.

Some facts about jeans shopping:

FACT 1. Jeans advertised as “instantly slimming” are not slimming if your legs are shaped like tree trunks. Nothing can be done about tree trunks. There is no magical pair of pants out there to turn hulking logs into toothpicks. Believe me, I looked.

FACT 2. There are more women over size 10 than under size 10 in the world. Please stack folded jeans top down from largest to smallest, instead of the other way around, so I don’t have to crawl around on the floor looking for my size. My size has a hard time standing up from a squat, sweaty, exhausted position.

FACT 3. Also not for my size? Low rise jeans. Normally, I prefer covering my entire crotch. Thanks.

FACT 4. Jeans are heavy when you’re carrying ten of them at a time. Please provide wheel barrows.

FACT 5. Five-way mirrors are cruel and unusual punishment. I wanted to cry at every angle. I prefer to think if I can’t see my ass, no one else can.

FACT 6. That is not me in the picture.

If you’re the type of woman who can grab a single-digit-sized pair of jeans from the rack and have them fit perfectly, please refrain from telling me so. I might have to hurt you. And I could snap you like a twig.

—-

Laugh your pants off at Humor-Blogs.com

When eating out at chain restaurants, I almost always find stuffed mushrooms on the menu. And I’ve never been disappointed. Until yesterday.

After some late morning shopping, my husband Dave and I grabbed lunch at a popular seafood restaurant, which shall remain nameless for reasons that will become apparent momentarily. If you really must know, here’s a hint: It rhymes with Dead Mobster.

I’m not a big seafood eater by nature. Indeed, when the waitress asked what I wanted, I inquired as to which items came wrapped in bacon. Only the scallops did, but I do not like scallops, Sam I am. So I opted for two standards: mozzarella sticks and stuffed lobster and crabmeat mushrooms.

I asked for the cheese sticks to come out with Dave’s soup, and I’d have the mushrooms when his scallops and shrimp dish was ready.

We plowed through our appetizers with hearty enthusiasm and devoured their most excellent seasoned biscuits. It was a good thing I got filled up on sides because one of us couldn’t eat any more after that.

Soon Dave’s entree and my mushrooms arrived.

Dave made fast work of his bacon-wrapped scallops and shrimp, while I took a stab at the stuffed mushrooms. Within milliseconds, I knew I wouldn’t be finishing it because it tasted like the lobster and crab meat was mixed ala Lucy and Ethel in the classic I Love Lucy grape stomping episode.

Why? Because it smelled and tasted like FEET.

And not just any feet. Feet that ran the Boston Marathon, their sweat marinating in socks for six hours in broiling heat. And then baked in an oven, smothered in Camembert cheese. Feety enough for you?

My problem wasn’t so much that I hated my feet mushrooms, but that Dave was enjoying his shrimp and scallops dish. I didn’t want to complain immediately that my meal tasted like sweaty socks and ruin his own meal.

So I kept poking at it, announcing that I was simply too full to eat it. I also didn’t want to have to tell the waitress that they served me funky baked, feety-cheesed feet. As I poked around more, I noticed the mushrooms appeared uncooked and resembled brain matter. Yum.

I didn’t ask for the body part special, but this is what I was served. If this were a smell-a-blog, you’d all be gagging and running for the nearest exit.

As you can see, when presented with a plate of feet and brain, the first thing any respectable blogger does is take a picture of it. Ah, but don’t be fooled. It looked delicious at the time, but I wound up taking it home and throwing it directly in the trash. (Don’t worry. I’m not taking that bag out.)

The fact is, we were fooled. How? Because we decided to eat there based on a beautifully-shot commercial for this restaurant that aired on the Food Network, better known as Porn for Fat People.

We hadn’t eaten at Dead Mobster for about twenty years because we weren’t overly excited about their food. But we let expert editing and mouth-watering visuals get the best of us.

Truth be told, Dave thoroughly enjoyed his entree, though I chalk that up to the mere presence of bacon. If we decide in another twenty years to visit, at least I won’t be ordering the ten-toe special. I recommend you avoid it as well. See, I’m always thinkin’ of you guys.

Girls, girls, girls. You may not realize this, but millions of women before you regarded this look as slobbish. I know this seems to be a trend right now, but it’s really not attractive. Not cute. Not flirty. Just makes you look like you can’t dress yourself.

If you’re going to wear a bra with straps that are thicker than the ones on the dress, for the love of God, at least match the color. And, by the way, I believe most men prefer a little mystery. This ain’t it.

And, yes, I did take a picture right there in the church. It was at a wedding, so everyone had cameras out. They were just pointing them at someone else wearing white.

Geez.

I suppose I should ask whether the men out there actually like this look. Do you find it alluring and sexy? Or do you think underwear belongs under there? Be honest.

These are trying times. Kathy has no words. A whopping ten drafts in her queue and nothing worthy of posting.

I think if I don’t post something today, nothing will ever get posted again, the Junk Drawer will close shop and you guys will loiter outside wondering what the hell happened.

I have to get something on the page to kick start me out of this funk I’m in.

Come back in a couple days if this post bores you to tears. I’m about to tell you about my weekend:

1. I fell asleep on the couch at 5PM yesterday and awoke at 8PM thinking it was the next day already. I slept hard. I even had full, movie-length dreams. In one of them, I was standing in a reception line at a political function, holding hands with Henry Kissinger. Discuss.

2. I worked all day Saturday, brought a lunch, but ate it before 10AM. So the rest of the day I took from the other junk drawer in my life and gave myself a headache, a stomachache and left work on such a sugar high I don’t remember how I got home.

3. My husband cleaned the bathrooms, God bless him, but broke the toilet seat off one of the toilets. How is this possible? Broke an entire toilet seat off its hinges? Men, if you’re going to help clean the house, don’t do it in the manner you would, say, play football. Cleaning a toilet needn’t be a race nor a destructive act. It just needs to be wiped down — gently.

4. In the process of preparing to send DrowseyMonkey her prize magnet for having the fattest head, I got sidetracked researching whether I can mail it with U.S. postage or if I have to take it to the post office to get international postage put on it. I tried Googling for the answer to this simple question, but could not find a satisfactory one. I’m too embarrassed to ask Drowsey, so I’ll just head to the post office tomorrow where I’m sure a clerk there will tell me what a moron I am.

5. I didn’t have the energy to fix something that’s been bugging me for a month. Our wall clock is stuck at 4 o’clock. We don’t know why because the batteries are fine. The pendulum below the clock face continues to swing to and fro. I meant to check on why it’s malfunctioning, but now I’m getting really used to it being 4 o’clock all the time. Four happens to be my favorite number, so I’m keeping it.

6. Since I took such a long nap yesterday, I couldn’t get to sleep until midnight last night. But my body always, always gets up between 4AM-5AM, which means I’m running on fumes right now. I’m sorry. This is the kind of post you get on fumes.

Forgive me for having to post such lame material, but this was the prescription for funkitis and it had to be done. Pray I’m funkless tomorrow.

Night.

I had a massive brain fart yesterday. I completely and totally forgot my blog password. In my defense, it’s the most awesome password in the history of complex, deadbolt, Fort Knox passwords.

It’s a beautiful thing, my password. Piece of art, actually.

It has a mixture of upper and lower case letters, numbers, special characters and at no point among the 13 characters exists any word in any language. It took me days to be able to enter it without thinking.

The problem with my password is that I only know the whole thing if I can get going on the first character. And that was my problem yesterday. I failed on take-off.

I couldn’t remember if the first letter was capitalized or not. Then I got all messed up on the following two because I wasn’t sure of the first. By the fifth character, I was way off the tracks and I knew it.

Come on, Kathy. You can do this.

Start over. Stop sweating. Think. But don’t over-think! Look at the keyboard. Don’t look at the keyboard! Find your center. Ooom, ooom.

It took me almost a minute to get it right. In password-remembering time, that’s an eternity. It bothered me a lot that I struggled. Why did I suddenly forget it after months of using it without a problem?

Maybe it means it’s time to change it to something like, oh I don’t know… password? What was I thinking using one so difficult at my age? Everyone knows the brain can only hold so much information. Critical stuff like word-for-word dialogue from every Brady Bunch episode, my high school locker combination, and the name of the girl in 4th grade who called me fat once.

That’s it. This brain’s full. I need a new one.

Some days I think I could be a vegetarian.

But here’s the thing. I loves me a good burger. What makes it easy to eat meat is that it doesn’t still look like the body part it came from, unless I’m eating Thanksgiving turkey, and then I try to ignore that it’s missing its head.

The most disgusting thing I’ve eaten that still looked like where it came from was this:

Italian tripe

Beef tripe is usually made from the first three stomachs of a cow, the rumen (blanket/flat/smooth tripe), the reticulum (honeycomb and pocket tripe), and the omasum (book/bible/leaf tripe).

I ate the reticulum. Sounds kinda like “rectum,” doesn’t it? 

I found myself presented with a plate full of the above “I’ll be throwing this up later” delicacy once when my high school boyfriend took me to dinner at his grandmother’s.

His was an old world Italian family where dinners were hours-long events to be taken very seriously. If something was served to you, no matter how revolting it looked, you respectfully ate it, smiled, and asked for more.

If I recall correctly, the vomit-inducing tripe was served to me in a soup. When I took my first helping, I was appalled. Each honeycomb sheet looked like bubble wrap after the bubbles were popped. It was pale in color and resembled something you might peel of your shoes if you should happen to walk through a garbage dump.

I couldn’t imagine eating this mess, but I really had no choice. A lot of love went into making this meal and I’m not sure I would have been allowed to leave if I didn’t at least try it.

And so I did.

I don’t remember the swallowing part; I only remember the chewing. I could have saved myself a lot of time and trauma if I’d swallowed the pieces whole because it took ten minutes to chew through the stuff. Essentially, I ate a bowl of rubber bands.

One by one, the sheets went down. Imagining I was eating food instead of an office supply, I slowly worked my way to the bottom of the bowl. I was careful to pace myself so that I didn’t finish too quickly, as that would only invite the question “Kathy, would you like some more?” Oh, no. Please, God. No.

To this day, I can’t believe I ate what I ate and have only the occasional nightmare about it. Give me another part of the cow — any other part — and I’m fine. Impossible-to-chew, sheets of skin-like stomach matter? No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.

So, what’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten?

——

It’s chow time over at Humor-Blogs.

Notice: This post has been edited since its original publish date. I removed the link to the website in question because the person who took my material wrote me last night, made her site private and hopefully removed my stuff. I can’t prove it, since the site is no longer available to the viewing public, but I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.

However, I’m leaving this post otherwise intact to remind everyone to periodically check for stolen material. Use Copyscape.com, which is free and will scour the web for places where your material has been republished.

Here is my edited post:

This is going to be one mean, angry post.

There is a woman, a fraud, who is posting my blog material to her Xanga website: [LINK REMOVED]

You’ll see on the first page my bathroom story from the other day. If you scroll to the bottom and click through “Next 5,” (bottom right) you’ll see more stories I’ve written (plastic bag story, First Holy Communion, and so on and so on).

She posted no less than ten of my blog posts, some in their entirety, some not, and some edited to make it look like those were her experiences. I also recognize some of my friends’ blog posts there. I’m disgusted and frustrated.

I’ve written her directly, posted to her guestbook, commented on each of the stolen articles and asked her to remove them immediately. I also submitted an email to Xanga to report the violation of their Terms of Use. Is there anything else you guys suggest I do?

What’s upsetting me the most is that she’s getting tons of comments on those posts from people who think she wrote them. As a writer, this is a most bizarre feeling. To have over 30 people comment to her about what a great story she wrote is extraordinarily painful.

It makes me want to give up blogging if people are blatantly stealing my content and getting away with it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I managed to get a MySpace page to “go dark” because I outed another thief.

Please, please, please do not tell me I should be flattered. I am not. I am fuming. Tell me something to make me feel better, and if you have any other advice for me, I’m listening.

—-

Fellow humor bloggers, you might want to see if she stole your stuff, too.

Back in November, I wrote about a cake I bought from a new bakery in town. I threw it out because it was too dry and the icing looked better than it tasted. I promised I’d give them a second chance and post back about it.

They blew it. Again.

Yesterday after a 45-minute walk with my sister, I thought I’d reward my effort and ruin whatever benefits I gained from exercising by making a return visit to The Dry, Gross Cake Bakery.

Everything looked scrumptious in the case and I ordered three items (pictured above): A Napoleon, a Southwest pizza thing (don’t remember what it was called), and a half-dozen donuts.

The Scorecard:

1. The Napoleon: Not horrible. The cream and flaky pastry part were serviceable, but the icing was overly-sweet and gummy. It may or may not have been fondant, which is a bakery staple for wedding cakes that looks really pretty, but sometimes tastes like crap. Grade: C+

2. The Southwest pizza thing: Bad all around. The bread was rubbery and tasteless. What I remember of the topping was diced tomato, corn and some unidentifiable meat. I thought it had cheese, but no such luck. Had the topping been 100% bacon, I could have salvaged it. Instead, it went in the trash. Grade: D.

3. The donuts. Ah, the donuts. How can a bakery screw up a donut? Donuts are Pastry 101! I should have known something was wrong when the cashier handed me the bag containing a half dozen of the lovelies. They were so heavy, I almost lost my balance. In my opinion, glazed donuts are supposed to be light and airy. Artery-clogging, yes. Deliciously sweet and fattening, yes. Brick-heavy, no.

Here’s a closer look. See that nice sheen? That’s perhaps how a glazed donut should look. Except for one thing. That’s not the glazed side. It’s upside down. Go ahead and click to enlarge, just put your sunglasses on first.

That shininess is caused by deep-fryer fat globules that are soaked all the way through. I wanted a donut, not a blob of lard. It tasted oily, burnt and slightly rancid. And crunchy. Donuts aren’t supposed to be crunchy, right? Grade: A Big Fat Lardy F!

Now look at the bag they came in. The grease reached flood stage about two inches from the bottom of the bag. It’s soaked through solid up to the first crease. If I thought all the grease got sucked out of the donuts, I might actually consider eating the rest. It seems such a waste to throw them out, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Here’s a question: It’s obvious I’m never going back to this bakery, but should I let the owners know how dissatisfied I am with their products?

They should know how un-yummy their stuff is, so they could at least fix the donuts. I refuse to believe I’m the only one who finds crunchy, oily donuts unappetizing. I wanted to love the bakery because they’re close to home and I need a new place for all my forbidden food needs.

I don’t want to post the name of the bakery, since I’m not a professional food reviewer (although I should be). If you know me and want to know where it is, give me a buzz. The rest of you don’t have to worry about stumbling into this greasy dive trying to pass as a bakery.

Now that the weather is getting warmer here in Pa., my sister Marlene and I have begun walking 30-45 minutes a day after work. We weave our way through her neighborhood, happy in the knowledge that spring is right around the corner and that we’re so dedicated to our exercise routine. We’ll be hotties by May, I’m sure of it.

Our walks are always pleasant and uneventful. But last Thursday was different. As we passed a random house, I heard a dog barking nearby and glanced over to find an unleashed one running straight towards me. I prayed there was an invisible fence that would stop it in its tracks. No such luck. He ran out into the street, right up to my knees and thought to himself “Do I take a bite out of the left leg or the right?”

I screamed immediately and Marlene grabbed my hand and pulled hard. “Come over here! Hurry!” My heart was already racing from our aerobic walking, but it was beating even faster at the prospect of having to fend off this creature. Its owners called to it, but it did not respond.

Marlene yanked me along and I never looked back. And then I almost started to cry. Still shaking a block away, I lectured to no one in particular that dog owners need to leash their dogs. Yes, I know most of the time dogs are fuzzy-wuzzy puppy wuppies, but you can never really predict how they’ll act in every situation.

I’m afraid of a lot of strange things, but my fear of dogs is not without reason. When I was a kid we lived near a couple who owned a German Shepherd we’ll call Satan. Our backyards faced each other, split by a small alley. Whenever they couple would come home from somewhere, the dog would freely jump out of the car and start barking at everything. He was as nasty as they come, but its owners loved him. “Oh, he won’t bite,” they would always say.

One day while sledding down the Ice Hill of Death, I made the mistake of heading down just as they were coming home. My timing couldn’t have been worse. Their car door flew open and out came Satan.

All I remember was “Uh-oh. This isn’t good.” I was completely prone. Laying on my back and unable to stop the sled, it wasn’t long before I was met by a face full of glistening, razor-sharp teeth. I’m shaking as I write this. I never felt as defenseless before or since.

I remember screaming as Satan lined up his jaw, ready to take that first succulent bite of me. He went right for the head. Because I was shielding my face with my arm, that was all he could manage to sink his teeth into. Luckily, I was wearing a very thick coat and his teeth only got as far as the inner lining. Thank God for small miracles.

The woman yelled “Oh, it’s OK. You’re OK.” Um, no. I’m not OK. Your dog’s trying to eat my face and would you kindly get him off me? Her husband managed to break things up and I hightailed to my house, tears freezing to my face.

When I got my coat off and showed my parents my arm, we were all relieved there was no blood. He hadn’t punctured the skin, but there were rows of swollen red marks where a clamped jaw had just been. My peace-loving parents contemplated the rest of the night whether they should press charges against the owners, since it could have been much worse and I was still such a mess afterward.

They ultimately decided against it and everyone went on their merry, separate ways. Our families never spoke again, though a few evil eyes were exchanged over the years.

No, I wasn’t seriously hurt and I’m thankful for that. But some thirty years later, I still remember what that bite felt like and I’ll always be fearful of strange dogs, except ridiculously tiny ones that I can swat away like gnats. It’s the big ones that do me in every time. Thanks, Satan. Thanks a lot.

Last week I wrote about the attempt by the Nielsen Ratings company to get my husband Dave and me to become a Nielsen Family. You can catch up here. The saga may not be over. If it continues, I’m getting a restraining order.

Here’s where the story picks up.

Three days after I contacted the Nielsen representative to tell her for a third time we wanted no part of becoming a Nielsen family, she called and left a message at work. All she said was “I need to confirm one piece of information you gave me, so I can update our records. Please call me.”  I didn’t understand why she needed more information other than us saying no, but I called her back anyway to be polite.

What she wanted to confirm was whether I said there were no children in the house, or if I said there were no children under 18 in the house. I replied, “No children at all in the house.” Fine. End of story. NOT SO FAST. Because Nielsen has such trouble understanding the difference between yes and no, she asked me for a fourth time if we would like to take part in the program.

So here we are again. Her begging me to join and me begging her to stop. I repeated that we want no part of this and that I hoped this would be the last time I’d hear from her. She thanked me for answering the question and we ended the conversation. I hung up wondering if the question she asked was bogus — used only as a way to get me on the phone again. I can’t tell you how much I regret giving her my phone number.

That night I received another letter from Nielsen. “Our sampling department chose your home to represent television homes in your community. As a member of the panel, a small unit will be attached to your TV and any VCR in your home.” It goes on to say how we’ll be remunerated and thanks us for our cooperation. The problem is, we’re not cooperating. We’re not participating. We want this to end.

I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt that the woman who came to my house didn’t immediately tell them we weren’t participating, and so the letter was sent to us on the assumption we said yes. That she didn’t tell them after the first time I said no tells me she had no intention of giving up on us.

And so it was no surprise that she showed up at our house again on Sunday. This was a week after the first series of no’s and three days after the last phone call where I said no.

When the doorbell rang, my husband looked out and saw a car with New Jersey plates. A-ha!!! I remembered from the first visit that she drove from Jersey and I knew it had to be her.

“Don’t answer the door!!!! It’s Nielsen!!!!!”

To be sure, I waited until she walked back to her car. I recognized her immediately. We are now annoyed in a borderline-call-the-cops kind of way.

She and an unidentified man remained seated in the car for another five minutes or so.  Her partner was seen flipping through what looked like a small phone book, while he casually smoked a cigarette. I was crouched down on the floor of my dining room, watching for what they’d do next. They eventually drove away and then I thought it was over.

Not exactly.

The next day, on the way home from work, I approached my house and what should I see a few doors down but a car with New Jersey plates, idling in front of a neighbor’s house. Oh. My. God. Could it be?

As I passed slowly by the car, I quickly looked over and saw it was indeed our Nielsen friend again. She had her head down and so didn’t see me. But now I had a new problem.

If she looked up, she was going to see me pull into my driveway and into the garage. Then she’d know for sure I was home and I had no doubt she would barrel down the street and pound on my door. She did it before, she can do it again.

So I drove around the block, pulled over on the street that runs behind my house and called my husband. “Dave? Look out back.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hiding. The Nielsen lady is back. She’s out front, six doors down. I can’t come home. She’ll see me.”

“Hmmm. Then go to a movie. I’ll hold dinner for you.”

“Wiseass. No, seriously. What should I do?”

“I’ll put up the garage door and you can come around opposite her. If you floor it, you can get in quick. Ready?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a minute.”

I backtrack the way I came and floor it up the street. The garage door is open. I don’t see that the woman is where she was parked before, but I have no time to see where else she might be. I shoot in and lower the door. And then we wait. No one comes to the door. No one loiters outside. I think we’re finally safe from the Nielsen people.

What’s clear is they haven’t found another family to replace ours. Because we refused, they need to find another house on our street. What I don’t like is how they’re going about it. To be idling outside people’s homes, flipping through directories, tells me they haven’t sent a letter of invitation to anyone else. Now they’re just desperate.

There is something seriously wrong with this process. Under any other circumstances, if a stranger came to my house uninvited, twice, and kept badgering me to join their group, it might be considered harassment by communication (at least in the State of Pennsylvania). It’s not as though I was selected for jury duty and refused to participate.

There is no legal reason why a person needs to take part in the Nielsen Ratings system. If asked, and a person declines just once, they should cease and desist immediately. If I receive one more phone call or visit from them, I’m contacting the company and you’ll be hearing about it here. Stay tuned.

Think I’m overreacting? Nielsen doesn’t just want to know what you watch. They want your brain, too. (See last paragraph, first page).

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

My husband Dave and I received a thick, official-looking envelope from the Nielsen Ratings Company last weekend. The Nielsen ratings system measures television viewership in the United States. The information they gather establishes commercial advertising prices and determines which shows stay or go in the program lineup.

Having this kind of control is a huge deal. Think of it as the adult version of being crowned Homecoming King and Queen. Not just anyone gets picked and you can’t volunteer for the privilege. Being selected as Nielsen Family means you’re something. People would kill to be you.

The letter gave a brief overview of how the system works and explained that we could make up to $450 for taking part. Sounds good, right? Wrong. I decided to do some research. Little by little, I realized we didn’t want to do this, since it comes with a whole lot of annoying strings attached.

The letter stated they’d like to “stop by to talk to you about this excellent opportunity.” I planned to give them an emphatic “We don’t want to do this” and the case would be closed. For some reason, I assumed they’d call to schedule the visit.

Instead, my door bell rang at 6PM last night.

Turn on the porch light, open the door and who do I find standing there but a Nielsen TV Ratings representative.

“Hi, you received our letter?”

“Yes, but we’ve decided not to take part.” Deaf to my response, she moved right into her spiel, explaining how wonderful an opportunity this is for me and wouldn’t I like to be part of the select group that was chosen by a very elaborate, scientific process… and on and on it went.

Rah, rah. I still don’t want to do it. It should be noted I did not invite her in. From what I’ve read, they can be pretty forceful and I knew if I let her in, I’d wind up making her dinner.  In more than one case, people have compared these folks to the FBI. My FBI agent came bearing a box of chocolates.

I gave her a look that said, “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

She persisted with her cheerleader-y speech and I knew I was in trouble. I was going to have to fight. I was going to have to make her hate me. I was going to have to kill her with questions, and so began The Inquisition.

“I’d read that technicians come to your house and attach wires and boxes, and even solder something to every TV set in your house. Is this true?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe. But we wouldn’t damage anything.”

“We just bought a very expensive high-def TV and we don’t want anything to happen to it.” Concerned about the amount of time it takes to set everything up, I followed up with “How long will that take? I read it can take six or seven hours.”

“Well, probably not that long. Maybe four.”

I counter, “But then I’d have to take a vacation day. The amount of money you pay us isn’t worth the aggravation. I’m a very annoyed person.”

“Well, we could do it on a weeknight.”

“That’s worse.”

“We could do it on the weekend.”

“Not much better.”

I probe further. “I’ve also read that you have to login to a device every time you walk into a room with a TV on, and then logout when you leave. Is that true?”

“Yes. You need to punch in your name and age.”

“I don’t want to do that. Plus I’ve heard that if you don’t confirm you’re still watching TV after 42 minutes, a box starts flashing red lights until you press something on the remote.”

“That’s true.”

“But I’m a very annoyed person.”

She kept the joust going. “If it helps, we asked other participants if they found the process annoying and they said after about ten days, they got used to it.”

Ten days?!?!?!

Now rubbing my temples, and freezing because I’m standing in my doorway in a pair of shorts on a 35 degree night, I tell her “Really. We don’t want to do this. I know you’ll have to pick someone else on our street now. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I wish you’d reconsider. Here, at least have these chocolates as a token of our appreciation.”

“Thanks, but no. We’re dieting.”

“No, really. You’ve been so kind.” Kind? How? For letting you stand in my doorway and not inviting you in from of the cold?

“OK. I’ll take them and share them at work.”

“Would you allow me to call you in a few days to see if you changed your mind?”

Oh my God, lady! I said no! No means no!

Because I’m a crumpled, guilt-ridden, chocolate-box-holding mess now, I sigh, “Yes. You can call, but I really don’t think I’ll change my mind.”

I reluctantly give her my work phone number, knowing full well when she calls me, I’ll be saying no all over again. She thanks me, we part ways, and I finally get back inside my warm house with my box ‘o chocolates.

The first thing I do is get on my laptop and email my sister about tonight’s bizarreness. Her response:

She came all the way from New Jersey!!!! What if you weren’t home? What if you were a serial killer? I would never go to a stranger’s home by myself. Oh yeah, the chocolates would protect me. The idea is intriguing, but I would probably regret the whole thing if I had signed up. Do you have to fork over all your financial statements, too? It’s like the IRS, they’ll make you do it, or else! I would do it for maybe $5,000.

She’s right. If I signed up, I’d regret it immediately. The last thing I want to do when I get home from work is do more WORK. Press buttons, log in, deal with flashing lights if I don’t press a button in 42 minutes?!?! Yikes. I have enough pressure 9-5.

Not wanting to put off the inevitable, I contacted the representative today at lunch, hoping I’d get an answering machine. Unfortunately she picked up. I explained to her that after careful consideration, we still didn’t want to take part.

She was deflated. I reminded her for the third time what an annoyed person I am and to please understand that my time is more valuable than the money they offer, but if they really wanted people to take part, they ought to up the anty to $5,000.  That put an end to the ordeal. FINALLY.

Today I picked up our mail and found another package from the Nielsen people, which contained brochures, a questionnaire and five single dollar bills. A five spot? Multiply that by a thousand and we’ll talk. Or bring me a box of diamonds.

UPDATE: There’s more to the story. See http://www.junkdrawerblog.com/2008/03/next-step-restraining-order.html

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.

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.

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Humor-bloggers wear fartless shoes.