My darling husband has a “thing” about mayonnaise. And it makes 100% more sense than my “thing”.

I can’t stand the thought of SOS pads. If the box is closed, it’s fine… but if I can even smell them, or see them, or if the crumbly soap powder gets on me, I start getting the creepy crawlies. And then, of course, the thought comes unbidden to my mind– what would happen if I bit into one?

AAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!!!!

I know, it’s bizarre, and I can’t think of where it came from, but it’s something I can’t stand. It’s the nails-on-a-chalkboard factor in my life. I CAN’T HANDLE IT.

Um… do you have any little idiosyncrasies?

… but not strong enough to answer your questions!

This is the reason why David Letterman totally kicks stupid Leno’s ass.

I almost call it spam, but it’s not, I guess. The flyers. The coupon books. The big green envelope full of ads for items “as seen on tv!!!”

We have put our names on every registry I can think of for “no flyers” “no junk mail” etc. etc. etc., but it’s still coming. Every week, there are at least two Home Depot flyers (there is no Home Depot in our town), stuff from McDonald’s (yes because my ass absolutely needs a Big Mac right now) and very exciting “Occupant, you may have already won…” official envelopes.

How. Do we. MakeItStop?!

I mean, we recycle it, I guess that’s the best we can do… but I don’t wanna be getting this crap in the first place.

Also, ironically (maybe… friggin Alanis), the one piece of “junk mail” we WANT to receive– the grocery store flyer? Yeah. they don’t send those out. You have to go to the store to get one.

When I was little, my sister and I used to share bunk beds. At the time, I thought it was the Coolest! Thing! Ever! that I got to share a bedroom with my older, very cool, sister. She was 11 and so cool (and I was four and just idolized her).

Cool things that happened due to us sharing a room:

She and I would get to talk alot (although what an 11 year old would talk about with a four year old is beyond me). We played this game where she would hang her hand down over the side of the top bunk and we would hold hands, and our beds were a flying machine (like the Great Space Coaster). She would also hold my hand like that when I was feeling afraid of the dark. I remember one time, she and a friend of hers (who I want to say lived across the street, but I’m not sure) were talking on walkie-talkies in the night. I *so* wanted to be eleven!

But sharing a bedroom with a seven-years-younger sibling was probably not as cool for her as it was for me. This probably explains why, occasionally, the bed would start shaking. I would ask her why. She would say, all nonchalantly:

“Oh, that’s the Devil. He lives under your bed, and he’s just trying to get out. Boy, I’m sure glad I have the top bunk! Night-night!”

And people wonder why I won’t watch The Exorcist. NO THANK YOU.

I won’t speak for Rob, but I am very, very much not a good singer. I mean, I can carry a tune, I’ve been in choirs and such (school made everyone be in choir from grades 1 – 8), but I’m not one of those people who open her mouth and have angels fly out ( side note: if I saw angels actually flying out of someone’s mouth I would probably wonder why they had been eating angels and also I would more than likely yell a lot). I don’t like to sing in front of other people, although I love to sing. When I’m alone it’s like a Broadway musical in here. I will sing with little kids, if they want me to, but I will not sing in front of other adults.

Except I *will* sing in front of my husband. There are days when our communication boils down to us singing little songs about each other (one of my favourites is the one he sings about being in love with Louise, and liking to eat cheese). Sometimes we do little duets. Tonight while I drove him to work, we paid tribute to Warren Zevon*, doing our best at this song:

Yeah, you’ll never see us on your MTV, but we are SUPERSTARS in our kitchen.

Read the rest of this entry →

I love etsy. I’ve been wasting all my paid post money there (not WASTING, because it’s all stuff I feel that I need, and it’s all very useful fabric or yarn or whatever, but I have made a decision that from now on I am saving that money up and not buying anything until I have enough to get a new wig), and I’m really very tempted to make one more purchase. Just one more:

I will, of course, resist. But you don’t have to.

Preface: Where I live, sodapop doesn’t come in the big 2L bottles. Nope, we have glass bottles. Only glass bottles. No cans. No plastic bottles. Just glass. That’s fine, but try picking up a six-pack of pop. That shiz is heavy.

Main story: This evening I needed chocolate. It’s a medical condition, I swear! So off I went to the store. My darling husband requested that I pick up a six-pack of Coke, because we are out, and, like my medical chocolate-needing condition, he has a medical Coca-Cola needing condition. Ahem.

The routine at our local grocery store is this: You put your stuff on the counter, they scan it through, and put it in your cart for you. If you have a six-pack of pop, instead of picking up the entire carrier and putting it on the counter (heavy, remember?), you put one bottle up, and they scan it through six times. That’s what I did tonight. Laundry soap, bottle of pop, chocolate. The lady scanned everything and put it back in my cart. Actually, she put the pop bottle right back in with the other five bottles. I paid. I left. When I got home, I looked at the receipt.

Yeah, you guessed it. She only charged me for one bottle of pop. $1.09 + 40 cents deposit. So I paid $1.50 for almost $9 worth of merchandise.

Now I’m home, I really, really don’t want to put my bra back on and drive back out to the store. I will go back and pay for them tomorrow after work. I swear, I’d do it right now if it weren’t for the bra factor.

Hey– I just noticed that Carrisa has a post about pretty much the same situation. Looks like it’s going around.

Time for us to get a better popup blocker. I just went to a site looking for knitting patterns, and came back with enough popups for dating sites and Viagra that should I choose to, I could be *very* busy for the next seven years. Hello, sailor.

I don’t really understand popups. I mean, do the popup-making-people think that we’re actually going to click on their ads? Does anyone still do that? Sure, when popup ads first appeared, people probably did click on them. But it’s years later now; isn’t it time for them to come up with something new? Not that I want them to; just… you’d think whoever is responsible for pains in the ass would be more up to date in their ass-pain-causing ways. Or, do they get paid for just having the popups… pop up? See? I DON’T KNOW!

Not three minutes after the last one~! Not quite a miracle, but whatever.

Rob and I are watching TV while eating the delicious turkey dinner that he cooked (we bought a turkey breast yesterday because neither of us really likes fussing with a whole turkey what with the bones and guts and feathers and everything). I’m enjoying the fact that he brought the “proper” turkey dinner into my life — to him, the only way to have a turkey dinner is if you have the turkey and stuffing and everything, PLUS a boiled dinner of corned beef, potatoes, turnip, carrots, etc. Yep. An entirely unhealthy but delicious meal.

Anyway. We’re eating, and the commercials come on. Then this one for hydroxycut or some other diet mumbo jumbo thing appeared on the screen. Way to make a girl feel guilty for enjoying the turkey. Still though, it was an interesting commercial. My favourite part was this lady. She was all “I used to be the fat mom, but with the help of hydroxycut, my kids think I’m sexy now!”

Why. Do you care. If your kids think you’re sexy.
If I had ever thought either of my parents were sexy I would have killed myself. And then woken up. And killed myself again. Because dude! Gross!