Chirky

Roger and I recently put our VW Passat up for sale on Craigslist.

I was a little wary of doing it, because I had visions of several men coming for a "test drive" and then thrusting a knife into Roger's side just before pushing him out of the car while driving down the highway. And then! All the other cars! That would hit him. It was a bit too much for me, so Roger called my dad and told him that I wanted him to come along, and bring his gun. Maybe a couple guns.

My dad laughed.

Y'all. I think I have some kind of separation anxiety. Or fear of death. Or fear of Roger's death. Or, abandonment issues. Though murder wouldn't really count as abandonment, because it's not like he would have purposely abandoned me. But still. You know what I mean.

We received fourteen responses to the ad in a 12-hour window, most of which sounded like they could be from possible buyers. Until we received this email:

hi, my name is julia and i am very interested in your vw... this would be my first car, and i cant [sic] find a good vw that runs for the cash i have. i only have 1,000 and my boyfriend said he would be willing to trade a few guns and some other stuff that he has. i desperately need a car and i dont know if we an [sic] work something out........please reply. thank you!

Dear Julia,


You're scary. And, NO. Just: no.


XOXO,
Roger and Jes

"Thank you for your interest, but please sell your boyfriend's guns to see if you can meet our asking price?"

And then what? What if she STILL couldn't meet our asking price? And her boyfriend got mad? And went to get his guns back? And then came after us because we wouldn't sell our car to her? And we all died in a bloody battle, our white cotton shirts each absorbing and displaying a ring of thick, red liquid?

What then?

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To: Roger
Fr: Jes
This just sounds ridiculously cool.
And a little like I might need a barf bag.
Wanna go?
BodyWorlds Exhibit


To: Jes
Fr: Roger
The coolest thing about it is that it is REAL PEOPLE.
I wonder if it's death row inmates or something...


To: Roger
Fr: Jes
Ooooooh. Death row. You think?
Would we see where they were injected?
Or maybe a fried organ?
"I'd like fried pancreas with garlic butter, please."

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I've told you before about my disdain for cockroaches, or at least I've given you creepy facts guaranteed to make your toes curl. Today is no different. I've got another piece of trivia for you, courtesy of my local pest control company newsletter:

"Cockroaches have been known to chew off the eyelashes, eyebrows and toenails of humans."

Question: Would you let a cockroach sit on your face and chew your eyelashes? How was this study done? Was this information discovered during an episode of Fear Factor? Inquiring minds want to know.

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"I can not carry your phone and wallet and keys in my purse for you. You're just going to have to start carrying your OWN purse."

(This wasn't selfish of me, because I totally had a purse I could have lent to him.)

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I'm a guest author today over at No Pasa Nada. Go! Enjoy!

An excerpt:

I worked as an assistant to an elderly man two days a week. My job was to (a) iron his shirts and pants, (b) cook him dinner and (c) vacuum his house. For this he paid me $15 per day. He loved me, naturally, because I’m a good ironer. I love starch. And so did he. It was a match made in heaven, except he was a good 60 years older than me. That didn’t stop Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to draw the line somewhere.

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Someone just popped a bag of popcorn.

My manager is out of town and I am holding down the fort.

The temp just told me she has an allergy to the scent of popcorn.

(?)

She needs to leave, and asked if I mind whether she leaves for the rest of the day.

(?)

::I met her question with a blank stare::

(?)

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At work, we have a large crate in the hallway. I do not know why.

It is on wheels. I do not know why.

Furthermore, it is bright orange. Hunter's orange. I do not know why.

And though I've seen it every day this week, this morning I saw the phrase "RENT-A-CRATE" stenciled on the side. And read it as "PROCREATE."

Something is amiss.
Please send help.

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"When I do this: 'gggguuuggglllrrrrrllllll,' do I sound sexy?"

"No. You sound like you are gargling with mouthwash."

"What about this: 'hhoooggggggllllllllllllll'?"

"Huh-uh. You sound like a cat gagging up a hairball."

"Uuggggggoooooorrrrggggllrrrrruhhlllllll. How 'bout that?"

"Now you sound like you're trying to hock a loogey."

"Roger! I'm trying to purr at you. Are you sure I don't sound sexy?"

"I'm certain."

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Turkey Meatloaf Recipe
Image taken from a delightful site called WhatWereEating.com

I have a confession to make: I've never liked meatloaf.

(Whew. There. I said it. Now doesn't that feel better? My heart can intrepidly race ahead, no longer confined by the knowledge that I have a secret, and the Internet doesn't know what it is.)

Though I love cooking, and would consider myself a foodie in a heartbeat, I only cook about three or four nights a week. I haven't figured out yet how we subsist the rest of the time, but my thighs are telling me that we're not in danger of starving.

If I had an intern to follow behind me, someone who didn't mind wiping my spills and washing my dishes, I'm convinced that I'd cook and experiment in the kitchen more often. But my laziness supersedes my passion for food, for lo: I am an unintentionally messy cook.

Once a year my employer holds a vendor fair to raise money for United Way. And every year there are fake-designer purses being sold, homemade jewelry crafters lining the walls of our Great Room (see: break room), Pampered Chef consultants and Sprint field reps (and more!) who set up disheveled booths and long banquet tables, all from which they sell us their goods.

Two years ago, I met a nice lady who sold products made by Homemade Gourmet. I thought, "How useful! Prepackaged seasonings that I add to food!" (?) I still have every one of those mixes in a basket in my pantry, patiently awaiting the day I need a mix to help me make baked beans or minty chocolate cheesecake or Grandmother's Sunday Roast. (I'm not sure whose Grandmother she is, but mine didn't have a special Sunday-only recipe.)

The Homemade Gourmet consultant also sold me a mix for Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf, which I only bought because Roger had been asking me to make meatloaf. Frankly, I think meatloaf is a little scary. It is a brown-ish hunk of loaf, afterall. Made entirely of meat. With ketchup all over it. Is it just me, or do you break out into hives when you imagine the loaf of meat? I'm nearly dry heaving even now.

I finally broke down one night and made the meatloaf from the seasoning packet that I had purchased, and good gracious! It was actually good! I enjoyed it. I wanted more!

I emailed the Homemade Gourmet consultant and told her so. Two months went by before I realized: Hey. I haven't heard back from her yet. So I tried calling a couple different consultants in the Dallas area, and they didn't call me back.

I'm sorry, but aren't they consultants? Aren't they supposed to sell this stuff to me? I'm practically flinging myself at their doorstep, hurling my money at them, and they're just casually having a look-see at me through their peephole.

And now two years have gone by, and no one wants to sell me the Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf mix. And I'm feeling a tad bit scorned. And also like maybe some people shouldn't be in the sales business.

So: do you know a Homemade Gourmet consultant? I mean, the kind who actually like to make money? Because I'm waving my money around in the air right now, and no one is lurching forward to take it.

Or better yet, let's have a contest**! You post your favorite meatloaf recipe. I will make each loaf of meat, and submit it to my panel of judges. Prizes* (for the best loaves) will abound.

*Please do not remind me that I still have not mailed the prizes from my previous contests. I know that. But I promise I'll get around to it. Eventually.

**The deadline for this contest is February 18, 2007. Please email me the meatloaf recipe or post the recipe in the comments section of this entry.

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"Why are you wearing those exercise leggings?"

"Because I was thinking about exercising, so I put them on."

"And pulling them on wore you out, so you spent the rest of the evening on the couch watching TV?"

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As part of Project: Stay Out of Debt, I rarely go shopping for clothes for myself. Or, let me rephrase: I occasionally go shopping for clothes for myself, I rarely actually buy any thing that I find.

Roger and I have "fun money" built into our monthly budget so that we can buy anything we want without having to first ask the other. Within reason, I mean. If Roger spent $5,000 on a new tv without first discussing it with me, that might be an issue. But if he calls me every time he wants to buy a book? Or a CD? Gah.

Sometimes when I go shopping, nothing fits. Other times, I have good shopping days. Nay, great shopping days. Everything fits! Everything is cute! And on those days, I hate telling Roger how much I spent over my fun money budget. Because then I feel like I'm confessing to a priest, and frankly? I feel a little guilty. (And oddly justified because: clothes that FIT me!)

Today was that day.

"Sweetie!!!!!!"

[When I talk to Roger, I usually begin the conversation with a high-pitched greeting, one that typically omits or alters certain consonants so that it ends up sounding like "Seeeeeeddddddddiiiieeeee!!!!!!" and it always has just that many exclamation points. Sometimes more.]

"I went shopping on my lunch break. I bought a skirt. It was $12.99." [This is my way of easing him into the news.]

"That's great, babe."

[Encouraged by his good nature, I continue.] "Ummmm…I also bought a pair of pants."

"Oh, gosh. I can see where this is going. Just give me the bottom line and tell me everything you bought."

[Giggling.] "Okay. I bought a skirt, and two pairs of pants, and a shirt. And a cookie cutter. But they're all neutral colors and will go great with so many things and will totally be great if I get that new job, or even if I stay in this one! I mean, I don't even own a navy skirt, and the pants are that kind of material that…"

"A cookie cutter!? Why do we need that?"

"Because one day we might have kids who want cookies at Easter-time, and it's shaped like a bunny. For Easter."

"Is that all?"

"I also bought two necklaces. They're soooooo cute! I can't wait for you to see them. One is black and has lots and lots of strands and buckles in the back with a little crocheted button. And the other has different shades of turquoise stones and is in three different layered lengths, and I really think it will look soooo cute with a black tank…"

"Well, I'm glad you have some things that you're excited about wearing and that you feel good about."

"Okay. Me too. Talk to you later!"

I think that went well, don't you?

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This morning I flipped to my favorite radio show while driving to work, and the first thing I heard was a (male, of course, because no female would do this) caller saying ON AIR:

"Is it lazy that I reuse my bath water? On the first day I'll fill the tub a third full of water and take a bath. Then I leave the water in the tub, and the next day I add another third of hot water to warm the old bath water so I can bathe again."

I ask: Why not just drain the water each day and fill the tub one-third full of warm, clean water each day? You're not using any more water than you would otherwise. It just makes sense.

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"I think those pants are a little tight on your stomach - you should have gotten the bigger size."

"I think they fit just fine."

"You have a muffin top."

"Sweetie, if I am a muffin top, what are you?"

::pause::

"I'm a popover!"

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Earlier today I began taking a free career test online, since I am not incredibly passionate about what I do, and I kind of think it would be nice to have fun doing my work once in a while.

And, y'all? I think I have ADD. About one-third of the way through the test, and again at halfway mark, I thought, "Ugh. I am soooooo over this test. 71 questions? Who has time to answer 71 questions about this nonsense? Who cares if I'd rather (a) Work at a wildlife rescue & rehabilitation center, (b) Work to restore wolves to wilderness areas or (c) Have vacations at a comfortable resort? And anyways, isn't the answer to that question a little obvious?

And so I'd minimize the window, go back to working, and less than a minute later I had already maximized the window again because there is a project that has not been finished, must finish it, my very future lies in the sweaty (and figurative) hands of the Internet, for lo – this will tell me what to do with the rest of my life. And I need to know.

And so I finished the test. And after all that? They want me to pay to get my results.

How is that free?

I mean, I guess it was free to take the test, and that is totally how it was advertised ("free career testing"), but it stands to reason that I should assume the results would also be free. Don't you think?

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This is the thing: I love to cook. But just because I love to cook does not necessarily mean that I read labels or know much about the nutritional value of food beyond: grilled is good, fried is bad.

Internets, I need your help.

You see, I just ate a cup of cooked pasta, which does not seem like a lot of pasta to me. But when I logged it in to SparkPeople, it counted that portion of my meal as 636 calories. Internets! That does not even count the diced tomatoes or artichoke hearts or mushrooms or garlic or grilled chicken or olive oil!

When I read that number of calories, I had a heart attack and then promptly DIED.

Okay, maybe I didn't die. BUT I WANTED TO. Naturally, I started looking for loopholes.

And this is my question, which I totally expect you Internets to answer, because you know more things than I do, and also because I refuse to believe I just inhaled a lunch worth 845 calories.

When I calculate how much I'm eating, is it supposed to be in terms of dry pasta, or cooked pasta? Because, obviously, 1 cup of dry pasta equals 4 cups of cooked pasta. We all know that. And I can much more easily believe that 4 cups of cooked pasta equals 636 calories than the one, teensy-eensy measily cup of it that I just ate.

PLEASE SEND HELP.

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Am sick.

I've just started on my third box of Kleenex.

And also?

I threw out my back.

In other words, life is good.

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