Tag Archives: 365 Project

The Universe Has Subscribed to My Blog

15 Sep

I'm suspicious of the universe. ...This is not me. This is a guy in a park making a face that I appreciate. Takeaway: I am not a middle-aged man.

I think the universe has subscribed to my blog.

I’m not really sure which username it’s under, but it’s becoming exceedingly obvious that I am being stalked.  And I’m totally down with it.

You see, it appears that when I pull something from my brain, ball it up into a post of rage, and throw it out into the world, it is answered.  Answered!   I know you don’t believe me.  And that’s totally coolio because I have proof thanks to this handy dandy postaday blog.

Behold the proof:

Exhibit A: I once wrote a post about how I was upset that my favorite ice cream place in the entire city had been replaced by a cryptic sign that said “Coming Soon! Chica Loca Taco!”.  I mourned the loss of a fantastic and popular shop and demeaned the stupidly named store that was replacing it, as if Chica Loca Tacos had something to do with it.  It’s a classic illogical blame switch, courtesy of my brain (you’re welcome).  Shortly thereafter, my favorite ice cream store responded with a comment on my blog that they were moving across town.  And as if that were not enough, my first visit to the shop of deliciousness revealed plans for an authentic pizzeria by the same company name right beside the ice cream stand.

Coincidence? I think not.  This was clearly an example of specified marketing based on social media.

Specifically, my social media. 

Exhibit B: I don’t like work.  Like most people, I’d rather be home in my pajamas, sleeping way too long, making and/or eating excellent food, and watching things that I find to be entertaining. I’d rather be with family and friends and animals.  I’d rather be walking around the middle of the woods pondering the meaning of life.  I’d rather be doing oh-I-don’t-know anything other than working.  It’s the plight of the human condition, apparently.  At any rate the universe heard me.  And on a day when I really wanted to be doing anything other than finishing out the second half of my day, it was announced that our building had to kick over to emergency generators and that I would not be able to work.  I was sent home.  Essentially through the power of wishful thinking, I got an Adult Snow Day.  It was beautiful.

And behold Exhibit C, the most recent development in the case of of universe-stalking-Jackie’s-brain: A Dyson vacuum.  That’s right: A Dyson vacuum.  After dedicating an entire post to my frustration with my vacuum, which clogs so easily with dust and cat hair in its fifteen-foot-long hose that it takes an entire hour and a half to effectively suck even half the grit out of my carpet, there rained down a Woot from Heaven in my favor.

For those of you unfamiliar, woot.com is a website that features a ridiculously awesome daily deal.  Sometimes it’s on something you find useful and sometimes it’s on something that’s totally useless but totally cool.  And yesterday one of my readers (after having read my post of anger and disgust) notified me that the woot.com product of the day was a Dyson vacuum, which regularly retailed for about 500 smackos and was featured on the site for an absurdly low price.  Absurdly low.  Almost heart-attack-inducing.   And in less than two weeks, I will have a beautiful Dyson cuddled up in my closet after using it to put a hurting on my carpet and then breathing the fresh, clean, cat-hair-and-dander free air in my apartment.

Maybe I won’t wake up with congestion anymore.  

Perhaps I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

Regardless, I got about 15 responses through Twitter, Facebook, the blog, and my cell phone telling me that I should hands-down get a Dyson as soon as it’s humanly possible.  And yesterday, the universe made it possible.  It’s stalking me.  And you know, I really don’t mind.  The blogosphere is a strange and powerful force.  

I think three exhibits are enough.  I’m not really sure how many I have to submit or who my jury is, but I can’t imagine what other evidence you could possibly need to conclude that my blog is a universe-changer.

That’s right: A Universe-Changer.  Here’s to pizza and ice cream in the same store, free ‘snow days’, and vacuums that don’t suck.   Or rather, do suck.  In fact, I hear this particular kind doesn’t stop sucking.

Thanks, universe: you’re the best stalker ever.♣

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The Pie Plot Thickens

14 Sep

My apartment has been overrun by pie.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m at war with Dave.  A few Tuesdays ago, I made a genuine attempt to craft an apple pie from naught but the loins of the earth and tragically failed.  I ended up with a miserable lump of doughy fruit that promptly got ignored like a red-headed stepchild and thrown in the garbage.

It was a hard day.

I came home the following evening to the warm, enraging smell of an apple pie in the oven.  Dave was one-upping me.  He saw my pie and raised me a better pie.  A tasty one.  Actually, an incredibly delicious one.

It was a brief war, as I had no tolerance for his flippant pie baking and decided that if he wanted to be the head pastry chef, he could go right ahead and be such.  After all, there’s nothing that makes my blood boil quite like rolling out pie dough.  And it’d be nice to ask him to whip up a pie for special occasions, host gifts, and celebrations of all kinds.

Expecting it to be a quickly satiated passion, I left Dave to his own devices – but he was not so swiftly stifled.

First there was an apple peeler.  Then official lard (as opposed to shortening) for the crust.  There’s just an enormous tub of lard sitting in my fridge at all times.  Do you know that today he looked up what the best kind of lard was and concluded it was lard made from kidney fat?!  Absolutely revolting.  And apples by the bundle.  They’re everywhere.  I have nightmares of hallways of Granny Smith apples rolling at me like a tidal wave.  I run and run, but I can’t ever get far enough from their reach.

Dave is making pies so often that he’s moved everything off the kitchen counter and asked if the flour can just stay there over night because “he’s just going to get it out and do the same thing tomorrow”.  

He says cutting apples is meditative.

So I mean, here it is.  This is it.  Dave is clearly my cash cow.   I think it’s time I really buck up and admit this is the moneymaker.  We’ll put a nice zen spin on it since it all centers his chi so fantastically well.  I’ll have a little cartoon of him drawn all goofy and seated in meditation with a little pastry chef hat balancing on his head.  We’ll call them Zen Pies and we’ll make millions.

Or maybe just a few hundred at some Farmers Markets.  

But I imagine my chi will be slightly more centered with an apartment that reeks of pastries and a wallet with a little more wiggle room.

This, boys and girls, is my million dollar thousand dollar idea. ♣

Notice the orchid and fall decorations – both featured in posts of their own. Proof, ladies and gentlemen, that I am a real human being with real posts and a real struggling orchid.

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How I Learned about Geocaching and Almost Strangled a Groundhog

13 Sep

I’ve really been putting the suck in sucker these past few Lollipop Tuesdays.  A failed apple pie, a hanging herb garden that now only has 1/5 herbs still alive, and today: a lot of wandering in the woods that amounted to nothing.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ladies and gentlemen.

I’ve been taking adventure anywhere I can find it lately.  Flyers, newspapers – whatever.  So when I was out to dinner meeting some new people on Sunday and someone mentioned their obsession with “geocaching”, I signed myself right up.

I know, right? Double yoo tee eff is geocaching?  Geocaching (pronounced jee-oh-cashing) is, well, let’s just yoink a clip from geocaching.com, shall we?

Right.  So basically there’s an entire underground network of people out in the world putting little knick knacks and doodads in containers and hiding them.  They go online, list the coordinates of their hidden treasure, and when someone finds it they go online and post about finding it.  The idea is that you try to keep it a secret.  Non-geocachers are referred to as “Muggles”, a la Harry Potter and it seems to be a cardinal rule that a muggle not notice a geocacher in the midst of their adventures.

People can share things small and large.  They can include a puzzle that gives a hint when solved.  They can even share a view or perspective with you by leading you to a certain place in the world that they have seen and loved.  It’s actually pretty groovy.

Unless you’re a bumbling idiot like myself.

I’m not good with maps or coordinates or… let’s just put it this way: I’m not naturally inclined in anything Boy Scouts are taught.  Which is why I went to two different geocaching locations last night and wandered around for five hours empty-handed.

When I first started I didn’t have a GPS device.   I just mapped the coordinates on Google Maps, printed the map, and took a stroll because I thought it was all cool and casual like that.  But it’s not.  I just wandered around and around, digging at trees, stirring up brush with my foot – and watching the same groundhog go back and forth from a pond to a tree.

Back and forth.  Over and over.  For two hours.

Having no context for the experience, I had no idea if I was looking for something buried, hanging, or simply camouflaged.  I printed a few posts from geocaching.com that served as proof that the cache had indeed been found, but alas I had no success.   After I’d been sitting in the trees and dirt for a few hours, I asked Dave to drive to me with the GPS so that I could get some serious business done.  But as it turns out, GPS devices take absolutely forever to communicate with something in space when you’re in the woods and by the time my screen updated, I’d already gotten impatient and moved on.

I don’t have the patience for space travel.

By the time I really decided to dig in with determination (cache or die!), it was pitch black and I was armed with naught but a wee flashlight, a car GPS, and a dream.  I failed.  And I failed hard.  By my third hour there in the rubble, I wanted to shake the living daylights out of the groundhog and yell “TELL ME YOUR SECRETS, GROUNDPIG!”

It was time for a change of location.

So I drove to another area of town where there was rumored another cache.  It was a park and it was a wide open area that was much more friendly with the GPS.  And even though I was standing exactly on the spot that the cache was marked for, I couldn’t for the life of me find anything.  Not a single thing.  I printed off a few comments from other successful geocachers on the website and kept repeating them out loud to myself.  “Don’t take the high road or the low road.  Just outside the Game Field.  Don’t take the high road or the low road.  Just outside the game field”.  And just when the crazy started to really set in, I snapped out of it and instead traded insanity for rage.  

I’d been out and about all night long.  Five hours in the dark with a tiny little flashlight and a piece of paper promising me treasure and I found nothing.  I was enraged at my stupidity and suspicious that this was some sort of sick, twisted, elaborate joke.

But I went home and checked the spoilers online.  The caches are indeed there.  

I like to think sunlight would have helped, but let’s be honest: I was hopeless.   Navigation is not my forte.  

It’s evenings such as those that I have to remind myself that Lollipop Tuesdays are all about trying something new that I’m inclined to suck at out of sheer inexperience.  And sometimes that helps but most of the time it just enrages me.  

I want to try again.  I’ll feel vindicated if I find something.  And if I ever get any good at it, it will be a great trick to show friends when I’m out for a leisurely stroll (at a place of my own choosing of course).  And the idea that out there all over the world are little tiny secrets that someone has left for others is incredibly charming.

If I can ever find the damn things. ♣

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My Code Name Is Flamingo

12 Sep

I’m pretty sure I used counterfeit money this past weekend and passed it off as legal tender.

For don’t-put-me-in-prison purposes, allow me to first note that it was not my fault.

I stopped by the ATM to get out some spending cash before heading out to an arts and crafts store to unleash my inner autumn beast and having a fall decoration bonanza.    For some reason when I take cash out at the ATM and tell myself I can only use that to spend, I’m much more fiscally responsible than just having a piece of plastic, where I believe things are paid for with magic and sunshine.

But while at the ATM, I was dispensed a few twenty dollar bills – one of which was funky.

For starters, it was an old school twenty.  You know, back before Andrew Jackson’s head was so darn big?  I know there are still some in circulation but it said 1985 and looked like it was printed last week.    It wasn’t just that.  I mean, I’m no counterfeit expert but this bill felt like regular paper – not that part paper, part cloth feel that helps you distinguish a bill from a piece of scratch paper in the bottom of your purse.  …Or is that just me?

I would have been able to more accurately distinguish whether or not it was a piece of funny money if it was a newer 20 (because I can’t remember for the life of me what security features are on old school money) or if I had a smartphone (one more bullet point in my list of why I should update my phone from 5 years ago).  But as it were, I was out and about, without a guide, and needed to use that twenty.

Which I was almost certain was funny.

Oh, I left out the most concerning part, which was that the right and left borders didn’t at all match.  In fact, the right border looked like someone had trimmed it with a pair of scissors. …Using their non-dominant hand.

But alas, I needed to off the twenty for goods to celebrate autumn and I had no interest in returning to the ATM, which already dispensed me one questionable bank note and may very well give me another.  I could have held onto it until today and taken it in during bank hours, but I work the same times as them and they’re on the other side of town.  That’s a lot of running around just because my bank is involved in a dirty crime scheme.

All signs pointed to spending it at an establishment that didn’t sport counterfeit pens. So I chose Petco.  I couldn’t remember ever buying anything at Petco and getting my money checked for counterfeit.  And even if they do have the pens, I banked on the fact that there was probably a disgruntled kid working there over the summer that just didn’t care.  And I didn’t mind picking up a few things there.  After all, what fun is celebrating autumn unless I can get some treats and goodies for the kittens to enjoy the day as well?

These are the signs of a true, emerging cat lady.

After I gathered an armful of catnip, treats, and other unnecessary pet frivolities, I headed to a register with a yawning, jaded twenty-something who didn’t even look like she liked pets.

I briefly recalled an application I put in for this Petco many years before and a small, silent rage burned inside me.

It came time to settle up and I offered up my funny twenty to pay.   My gut wrenched slightly as I searched for the pen of truth on her register. What would I say if she marked it?  What would happen to me?  Would she just give the money back or would she call some sort of authority?

By the time my mind catapulted me to the back of a cruiser car, screaming wildly about the ATM dispensing bills that looked like they were printed off my home computer, the girl was handing me my change and wishing me a good day.

No pen, no questions, no concerns whatsoever.  In fact, she entirely neglected to hand me a ten dollar bill – a very crucial component of my fourteen dollars in change.   She apologized profusely for the mistake but I didn’t mind.  It wasn’t her fault.  I sought her out.  I knew she was an excellent choice and she went above and beyond the apathetic call of duty by not only ignoring the funny nature of the twenty I handed over, but being so completely oblivious that she didn’t even calculate basic math.

Successful transaction with criminal money and successful typing?

I should be a secret agent. ♣

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Diapers and Leashes: the Surprising Need for Specificity

11 Sep

We need to have a talk.  A serious talk.  

Yesterday I went to Petco and found these:

double-u. tee. eff.

Let’s discuss.

What on God’s green earth are these?!  

There simply aren’t enough combinations of question marks and exclamation points to accurately convey how stupefied I am.   Are there people actually putting these on animals?  Because I assure you that this is not a  joke.  Petco had these prominently featured on an end cap.  They come in a variety of sizes and feature several different types of disturbed, angry dogs on the front.

Look at that dog.  Really look at him.

Look at the fear in his eyes.  The desperation.    Not even the drawn-on smiley face is enough to distract you from the deep, deep sadness.

I think we’re starting to get confused.  I do.  Because there is absolutely no reason that anyone of sound mind could possibly put a diaper on a dog but that they are simply confused.  And since I’ve taken it upon myself to educate America on these sorts of things, let’s review.

This is a child.  It is a human being.  It does not belong on a leash.  If you have trouble keeping track of your child, I suggest you demonstrate a bit of authority.  If you have complete control over your child and are simply concerned that someone will take off with him or her, I recommend holding his or her hand.  

We use leashes on dogs because dogs don’t have hands.

There is no excuse for leashing a child and diapering a dog but delirium.  Somehow our nations has just mixed the two up.  Perhaps a series of recognition flash cards is in order.    We could show folks a series of pictures of dogs and then a series of pictures of children.  And then we can pose the big question.

Which one of these two figures is a dog and which is a child?

Winners will receive a pack of diapers (for humans, not dogs) and a leash (for dogs, not humans).

Apparently, there is a now a need for specificity in both those realms. ♣

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The Jackie Blog: A How to Guide?

10 Sep

Yesterday someone got directed to my blog by asking Google how to take out their contacts when they have acrylic nails.

Google is good for all sorts of life problems.  Interesting developments on your body you’re not sure whether to see the doctor about, how how to try new things without all the surprise that typically comes with new things, and basically anything you didn’t pay enough attention to in school and suddenly find a need for.

I’m so proud that when folks are in need, they can be led to my blog for their problems.   Unfortunately, Acrylic Nails Girl came to my blog and found that I had nothing to offer but a story of pain and perseverance, but perhaps it inspired her.  Perhaps I’m going the wrong way with this blog.  Instead of musings and ramblings of all shapes and kinds, maybe I should be focusing on ‘how to’ guides.  After all, I’m a wealth of information.

Let’s take a look at some other ways I’m enlightening America:

How to Cross the Street  

How to Handle Emergency Situations 

How to Get People to Leave You Alone 

How to File Taxes 

How to Get What You Want 

How to Lose Weight 

They’re universal in nature and straightforward in approach.  How could my blog not be a booming success with a ‘how to’ angle?

I’ll probably have to change the header image at the top.

That Yo Gabba Gabba creature really throws people off. ♣

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A Domestic War

9 Sep

I’m at war with my vacuum cleaner.

These newfangled contraptions and their promises to get dander and dirt out of the grimy little crevices between my rug threads – they’re liars!   Liars, hounds and thieves!   It always starts out so nicely – so hopeful.  I get a shiny new vacuum that has enough suction to suck my skin right off the bone and then one day while I’m vacuuming I realize I’m not really vacuuming at all.  I’m just pushing dirt around on my floor and when I lift up the vacuum it’s all right there, staring at me.

I have serious dust bunnies.  They have beady little demon eyes and they roll around in cat dander and fur.  And when I lift up the vacuum to find them all still there, just rolling around in their own filth, I get very, very angry.  I don’t like to be mocked.

Yesterday I genuinely considered throwing my vacuum out the window.

I always complain to Dave that the vacuum doesn’t work.  He does something magical to fix it, I use it, it works, it breaks, and I complain again.  It’s a vicious, brain rotting cycle.  

Yesterday when I started up ol’ Bess, I got very excited for the potential of a freshly cleaned carpet.  I was going to have beautiful little zigzag lines in the rug and all the little tidbits would be eradicated from every crevice.   But when I started her up, she huffed and puffed and didn’t do a darn thing.  I told Dave she was broken again and he told me to check the hose.

My vacuum has this hose that goes all the way from the very bottom of it up to the top, wraps around, and then goes back down and slightly curves up once more to lead in to the chamber where all the dust bunnies make dirty love together.  And luckily for me, it was completely clogged with junk.

Now, I’m no vacuum engineer, but it appears to my commonplace brain that this is not the most efficient design possible.  

So one trash can, long straightened wire hanger, and twenty minutes later, I puff up my chest in the living room, proud that I have singlehandedly conquered the vacuum and declared my dominance over it.  

Until I plugged her in, started her up, picked her up, and saw all those beady little bunny eyes – mocking me.

(Insert vacuum-out-window dream sequence)

So I’ve had it.  I’m done.  No more newfangled vacuums.  You know what? My parents had a junky old vacuum that was loud and weighed a thousand pounds and was ugly as sin but it rocked so hard sometimes the house didn’t even accumulate debris out of fear.  I think this weekend I’ll go hunting for the biggest, clunkiest piece of junk I can find, bring it home, and shower it in glory as it sucks up every bit of grossness that has now been fermenting in the threads beneath my feet. 

I might even get one with a bag.  A BAG!  Doesn’t that sound ridiculous?

But listen – bags get full.  Because bags work.

Maybe once my floor is clean, I’ll put on Chariots of Fire theme song and live out that chuck-out-the-window dream.♣

Maybe when I get a vacuum that works, I'll just go straight to the source of the problem.

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Farewell, My Jedi Baby

8 Sep
I’m feeling quite terribly about the fact that my post today was an ode to a post I wrote and then deleted.
 
I feel like you’ve been robbed of a post.  I know I do.  So allow me to repost an oldie, but a goodie, from back in the days before my 365 Project, when I simply updated when I felt I had something to talk about.  And the day Mark Hammill came to my school definitely qualified.
 
Disclaimer: I was a little more… shall I say…liberal with my word choice back then.  Enjoy.

Farewell, My Jedi Baby

I met Luke Skywalker today.
 
Yeah, Luke Skywalker.  Not even Mark Hamill.  It was just straight-up Luke Skywalker all like “Hey, Jackie; I’m Luke Skywalker.  Let me impregnate you.”
 
Let’s get something straight.  I wouldn’t do Luke Skywalker.  One, I don’t go for blondes.  Two, I’d be self-conscious of my inability to rock his world in bed since I don’t have this whole “force” thing down.  Lord only knows what the man could accomplish with his mind.  I can’t compete with that and quite frankly, I have no interest for the toll it would take on my mental health to know that I had a chance to go at it with a Jedi and he was ultimately displeased.
 
Not to mention he’d probably make me wear his sister’s golden bikini and dog collar accessories and I simply couldn’t

This image belongs to Star Wars and folks. Unfortunately, it's from back in the day that I didn't realize I had to credit people for their images. Silly Jackie.

 handle him going all Jabba the Hut on me in bed.  I’m down with role-playing, but I have my limits.  A big gargling tub of poo with a domination complex is where I draw the line.  Yeah, I know; my bar is set pretty low.

 
Nonetheless, I will admit; when I was standing not 15 feet away from the man who saved the galaxy, I wondered if I could overcome all this if it meant I would give birth to a metachlorian-charged Jedi baby. 
 
I thought of all the benefits my Jedi baby could bring to the family: quick cooking, easy clean-up, direct access to Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson, and the ability to let me know when all is not well with the force.  Because sometimes I wonder, you know?
 
Then he started to talk about his kids.  Turns out Luke Skywalker has babies.  Three of them.  Except they don’t sound like Jedis at all.  One buys a lot of clothes and only votes so she stays in Luke’s will, one is a comic book artist, and the other, um, I spaced out for.  Cuz I was thinking of his metachlorian-charged sperm.
 
Then I realized; maybe he married the wrong woman.  Is it possible that Luke Skywalker wasted his incredible Jedi jizz on a female counterpart who is unable to supply him with Jedi babies?
 
It became alarmingly apparent that I had to save the Jedi race.  Yes, it was up to me.
 
Unfortunately, I was unwilling to submit to his roleplaying necessities or to the fact that he’s a blonde.  I don’t care if he’s the New Hope; I have a type and I stick to it.  End of story.  So there was only one thing to do; steal Luke Skywalker’s sperm.
 
As I was devising some sort of Dr. Evil-esque way to steal Skywalker’s mojo, I began to tune back into reality.  Suddenly, it became apparent to me that the man in front of me was not Luke Skywalker at all.  It was Mark Hamill.  I know this because Mark Hamill mistook an X-wing for a tie fighter, Cloud City for the Death Star, and kept referring to his stage weaponry as a “gatling gun.” Plus, he didn’t move anything with his mind.  Not once.
 
So here I am, working out the details of Operation: Jedi Baby and he’s fumbling over the most rudimentary chapters of the Star Wars Nerd Encyclopedia.  
 
I guess somewhere underneath it all I expected him to be a nerd, too.  I mean, if I know all about Luke Skywalker, shouldn’t Luke Skywalker know all about Luke Skywalker?
 
It figures.
 
I’ve waited my whole life to get a hold of some metachlorian sperm and the moment it’s within my grasp, it all falls apart. All I wanted was a Jedi Baby.  Was that really too much to ask? I wouldn’t have even made him pay child support.♣

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An Investigation of My Stupidity

8 Sep

I’m absolutely losing my mind.

Gone.  Out the window.  Never to be seen again.

This morning, I wrote up a pleading post on how I wanted the WordPress Wizards to fashion an Undo Button so that I could recover beautiful nuggets of writing that I keep losing over and over again thanks to an oversensitive touchpad and a bad case of trigger finger.

I have looked for this Undo Button several times, while attempting to restore sometimes entire paragraphs of text that gets accidentally highlighted and deleted thanks to my idiocy.

And this morning, directly after I posted my plea to WordPress, I found it.  Right up on the toolbar with a big arrow rotating backwards – the beacon of liberation from moronicness.

Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to write entire portions of posts over again because I’ve lost them and convinced myself there wasn’t an Undo Button to save me?   Can you possibly fathom how many times I’ve searched over that toolbar praying to the blog gods for something to save me and have entirely missed it each and every time?

I’ve written over 250 posts so far this year and each and every time I’ve needed the Undo Button, my eyes and failed me.  Why? Because Microsoft Word puts it on the left side of the toolbar and WordPress.com puts it on the right. 

I’ve been conditioned to overlook it.

I’m disappointed.  First, because it took me quite a long time to draft a worthless post that went straight to the trash.  And second, because there are entire half-pages of text in the nether that could have been easily recovered if I weren’t so incredibly challenged.

…If I’m disabled, do you think someone will tell me?   Because I’m seriously starting to wonder.  Can I get tested?  Maybe I can go somewhere and have my brain examined.

Oh my goodness -what if I’m just stupid?!  I think I might be stupid and no one ever told me.  After all, I can’t trust good marks in school – schools are starting to grade with smiley faces and pictures of animals and comfort words.  Maybe they just didn’t want to tell me I was a failure.

But alas, I have discovered the truth.  Milk in the cupboard, cereal in the fridge, running into things all the time, and complete forgetfulness of where I am in conversation from time to time. 

I just stare straight forward, like a deer.

This is going to take a while to adjust to.  After all, I didn’t realize I was afflicted.  I saw all the signs, but given the nature of my affliction, I really need someone to just look me in the eye and tell me I’m a moron.

Thank goodness for my trashed post and the enlightenment it gave me.  This has truly been a life-changing day.

Oh, and now I don’t have to worry about not having an Undo Button.  You know, because it’s been there the entire time. 

Man, that’s a lot to digest before noon. ♣

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In Praise of Autumn

7 Sep
I was cold yesterday.
 
Like, genuinely cold.  Cold enough to put on another layer.  Cold enough to consider socks.  Cold enough, my friends, to entertain the idea of a scarf.
 
Autumn is coming and I’m so excited I could just pee myself.  Just one big puddle of pee around me, all the time.
 
Fall brings all the super awesome things to my life.  It brings delicious food and seasonal specialties (don’t pretend you don’t look forward to a pumpkin spice something-or-other all year long, because you do).  It’s the perfect season for clothes because I can sport my summer clothes in layers with my winter clothes.  For one beautiful moment in the year, nothing in my wardrobe is off limits.   I can wear makeup without it melting off ten minutes later.  I can do my hair without it falling apart into a humid, hot mess.  I can go for walks and be excited just to breathe autumn air.  I can – holy cow – step foot outside my apartment without my armpits instantly turning into marshlands.
 
Mmm.  Armpit swamp.
 
Road trips are fantastic because they’re chock full of beautiful, vibrant arrangements of leaves.  The air has a slight sense of musk and wetness to it that makes me want to cuddle up with a blanket or a book or a great bowl of something warm and delicious.  I dream about going out to a cabin somewhere and starting a fire where I can hang by its warmth with no one to bother me.
 
The autumn months hint at holiday cheer without bogging me down with the stress of it all.  I can happily browse for a thoughtful gift here or there without the pressure of knowing I have to have it all done right away.  I can dream of all the paid time off I’m going to take from work without actually taking it yet.  Just the thought of it is enough to get me through two months without even thinking of taking an extra day off.
 
Work begins to lighten up because folks are cashing in on vacation time before the holiday galas and events start calling them somewhere new every other evening.  People are making big, wonderful plans for the season that keeps them hopeful enough to stay in a good mood.  And the idea that holiday cheer is slowly encroaching upon them manages to turn some of the sourest sourpusses into decent fake smilers.
 
Everything is lovely when the leaves are changing.
 
I don’t think I can make it to the 23rd of this month before giving in to my excitement.  I’m already lighting a pumpkin candle every evening and dreaming about how I’ll arrange the fall decorations this year.  I’m placing blankets on every sitting surface just so I can nuzzle them later.  I’m flipping through magazines looking at amusing food to make for the season.
 
My favorite so far is tiny hot dogs wrapped up in croissants like mummies and given faces with mustard.
 
Well, that settles it.  This weekend will be spent baking, hanging decorations, and wrapping tiny wieners in bread.   I hear the forecast calls for thunderstorms.
 
Perhaps even some puddle splashing is in order. ♣♣♣

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