McCommunication

My exact conversation with the guy working the drive-thru window last night at Mickey D's:

Him: Welcome to McDonald's. Would you like to try one of our Angus Third Pounder burgers?

Me: No, thank you. But could I please have two double cheeseburgers, two small french fries and a 10-piece order of chicken McNuggets? (It's important for me to mention that I was ordering for another person as well. I totally wouldn't eat TWO orders of fries.)

Him: Anything else?

Me: No, thank you.

Him: Do you know about our special deal on pumpkin items, like our pumpkin shake?

Me: Oh, no. Tell me about it.

Long pause.

Him: Well. It's....um....new....and it tastes like pumpkin?

Me: No.....like, what's the special? How much is it?

Him: Oh! You can get two pumpkin pies for a dollar.

Another long pause.

Me: Well, what about the shake?

Him: It's just a shake.

Me: Okay, give me the pies.

The moral of this story? I can be talked into almost anything if you confuse me enough.

In Good Company

Meet my stapler. Meet my tape dispenser. And say hello to their primary function at my workstation over the past few weeks: propping up my almost-empty bottle of Bath and Body Works hand lotion. I'll admit it. I have a little problem. I'm a toothpaste tube roller, a hairspray bottle tilter and apparently, a body lotion up-ender. I've just got to get the last drop.

Earlier this week, I was sitting at my desk when out of nowhere, the site of this odd trio made me smile. I leaned back in my chair and thought: you probably did this too, right? Or at least something similar. Raising kids and working full-time. Cooking dinner every night, no questions asked. And learning to stretch a dollar as far as it would go.

Virginia.

Betty.

Grandma.

Mom.

Not cheap. Not frugal. Not thrifty. Responsible.

If it's broken, try to fix it before you replace it.

Expect to earn it, not to have it given to you.

Needs? Those come first. Wants? Well, save your pennies and pay cash.

Live within your means.

Use well what you already have.

And if the grocery store accidentally charges you .17 cents for a foil baking sheet that should cost $1.17, go back and get as many as you can without looking suspicious. Oh, Grandma.

So this is it. It's unofficially official. I've arrived and made it a trio. And I finally get it. It's not about spending or saving. It's not even necessarily about money. It's about appreciation, resourcefulness, discipline and setting a good example for those little eyes watching.

Yup, I got all of that out of an almost empty bottle of lotion propped up by a stapler and a tape dispenser. Whatever it takes. I'm in good company.

This One's For April (And October)

April made a request and I need some feedback, so SN readers get another poll. Excited, aren't you? Well, you should be. It has to do with my most favorite time of the year: Halloween.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved the whole process of getting ready for Halloween. Decorating the house, putting together a costume, passing out candy. And of course, getting older and turning the Halloween corner. To haunted houses.

Haunted forests, prisons, cornfields, mazes, hydros (for real) and houses. I've done them all, and for the most part, I've loved them all. Every year, September finds me keeping my eyes and ears open for the latest, greatest haunts. This year was no different, and I was pumped to find a haunted house open this past Friday. I stood in line and took in the sights:

A dimly lit waiting area.

Scary and realistic creatures/monsters.

Fog.

Screams from inside the haunt.

And. . .

Teenagers. Lots and lots of teenagers. As I looked around at all of them I thought: "Impossible. I'm not this old." But to them, I might as well have been the creepy old lady taking the tickets. Except, of course, that the creepy old lady taking the tickets was actually a teenager in costume. Scary.

What does it all mean? Am I too old for haunted houses? Do I just not know when to retire? Am I the Brett Farve of Halloween?

My options are this: continue going and ignore the teenagers (and the stares), wait until I have a kid old enough to go but young enough to let me tag along or volunteer to work at a haunted house as the creepy old lady taking tickets. No costume required.

I'm interested to see what you think. Take my poll to the right and be honest. . .because. . .the shadow knows. . .

P.S. The poll is open until October 31, 2009 and I've allowed for multiple answers. Mostly because of option #4.

Don't You Just Hate It...

...when the wrong number calls your phone at 6 in the morning? Don't you also hate it when, as a result, you iron and lint-brush a pair of pants before realizing they're inside out?

Extra hour and half of sleep, I missed you too.

May Your Song Always Be Sung

Don't hate on me, but I've never been a huge Bob Dylan fan. So I was surprised when I found out that the lyrics from a Pepsi commercial featuring Will.I.Am come from an old Dylan song. Check out the longer version here (oh, and keep an eye out for the guy in the blue speedo. He's quite the dancer and certainly the star of the show. It's totally a viewing bonus.):



I love it when stuff like this happens because now I'll definitely do some Dylan research and see what else I've been missing. As for the lyrics below, I'm knocked out by the beauty of their simplicity. Makes me think of my four sweet nephews:

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

August: The Most Pathetic Month Of All

Well, at least for me. 1 post? Pathetic! I have to admit though, the past month has been packed with activities, some fun, some sad, but nothing blog-worthy. So I'm going to finish out the rest of the month with a post a day. This is mostly a challenge to myself to see if I can come up with something significant for four consecutive days. After all, I caught myself taking pictures of a praying mantis earlier today. With my new iPhone. So consider this blog therapy.

Kids. I've Got To Get Me One.

Overheard in the Home department at Elder-Beerman:

Young Boy, about 8: "It was really cool just like I knew it would be. Cole said it looked exactly like that at the Swisstonian."

Amused Mother: "I think you mean the Smithsonian."

Pause.

Young Boy: "Oh. Well, I call it the Swisstonian. So anyway..."

Huh. The Swisstonian. I like it! Even if all they display is historical cheese.

My Absence. . .

. . .can be explained with one word and one picture.

The word? Vacation.

The picture? Low country boil:

Mmmmm, three of my favorite foods: seafood, sausage and starch! I just HAD to be a tourist and take a picture. The place had baby alligators in a lagoon out front though, so I'm pretty sure they welcome tourists and their pictures.

(As a side note, thanks for the surprise birthday trip, P! I expected 30 to be a tough one, but Savannah, plenty of seafood, the beach and spending time with you made it completely enjoyable.)

It's Not Delivery...It's Dejection

I made it to the last aisle. Frozen foods, to be exact. I had been focused and organized, flying through my list and poised to make it out of the store in record time. But there she stood in front of the frozen pizzas, reading off the names of each one into her cell phone:

Roadblock: "Well, let's see, there's pepperoni, sausage, plain cheese, meat lover's, pepperoni and sausage, half pepperoni-half cheese, veggie...hmmm, but you wouldn't like that. Okay, how about mushroom, four cheese, supreme...Well? Do any of those sound good?"

Long pause.

Roadblock: "Hello? Hello? Are you even listening to me?"

I sensed she was talking to her husband. Normally, I would have skipped ahead of her to the off-brand section, but dammit, I had a coupon.

Roadblock: "How does meat lover's sound? What's that? You can't hear me? MEAT LOVER'S. Does that sound good to you? Oh, good. Well, let me just get it out and make sure there aren't any onions on it."

She then proceeded to read the entire list of ingredients out loud into the phone. At one point she even glanced over at me, but didn't give an inch. She was hellbent on making the perfect pizza selection.

Roadblock: "So it doesn't sound like there are any onions, right? We'll go with it then."

And she started moving her cart. But...

Roadblock: "Well, maybe I'll get another one for this weekend. We can have a nice night in. I can get a sausage or pepperoni, or whatever you like. Maybe another meat lover's. Just tell me what you would prefer. Or I could get a small pizza with some garlic bread. Would you like that? Hello?"

I have to admit, despite my shock and awe, I kind of felt bad for her.

Roadblock: "Well, I thought you'd like to choose. I'll just pick something out and if you don't like it, well, you're going to have to live with it."

By this point, I had actually rested my cart against a display case and was casually leaning against it. Openly listening to her end of the conversation. Desperately wanting to make a selection for her.

Roadblock: "What do you mean you don't care? Why don't you care? Pizza is your favorite!"

Are you there God? It's me, Maureen. I need a miracle in aisle 15.

Roadblock: "Okay, I'm walking away. Guess you didn't want another one that much."

As I finally grabbed the pepperoni and cheese I'd been staring down (so close, yet so far away), I thought about the pizza dejection I'd just witnessed. Roadblock went from high to low pretty quickly, and all because her husband was probably focused on waxing the car or watching the ball game. I mean, how could she expect him to get that excited about a frozen pizza? And then throw it back in his face when he didn't?

And what of me? Innocent bystander. Pizza dejection witness. Well, I learned a few things. Like, for example, while it's sweet to try to keep love in the air by pleasing your partner, it shouldn't be at the expense of your own mental health. I mean, if he's not happy with the meat lover's, that means more for you! Am I right? Ladies?

In the end, the wait was worth it. A delicious pizza and material for a blog post. That's almost better than double coupon days or free sample Fridays.

The Runs

It pains me to have my first post in almost three weeks be titled 'The Runs.' But I can't help it that I:

1. Try to find the silver lining in almost all less than desirable situations, and

2. Am a horrible housewife, a fact previously documented on this blog.

Earlier this week, I came home after work to find our sweet little black lab, Bailey, cowering and shaking almost uncontrollably as I opened the front door. She'd done something bad and she knew it. I knew it too a few steps into the house.

The Wendy's bag I was holding no longer desirable (the new boneless wings combo with a Sprite), I set everything down in order to fully comfort Bailey. Yes, it is sweet that I chose the health and well-being of my animal over five minutes of bliss on my front porch eating the bold buffalo spiciness I smelled the entire way home. But Bailey also has bladder control issues when she's extremely nervous or excited, and I didn't want to clean up two messes.

With Bailey finally calmed down and settled on her bed, I proceeded to the kitchen to assess the damage. Two main points of deposit, runny, but no carpeting or rugs involved. Not as horrible as I was expecting.

I dug out the pet cleaner, Lysol, several plastic grocery bags and as many paper towels as I could grab, and got to work. As I was down on the floor cleaning, a yellow Wendy's napkin stuffed up my nose for gag protection, I thought "Hey, at least part of the kitchen floor will get its first good scrub in about three months." And after a flash of guilt, I briefly considered scrubbing the rest. But I had those wings waiting...come on, you would have done the same thing.

Buzz Lightyear Is Killing Me

I wasn't prepared. Nope, it was just like any other normal day. I was driving along, perhaps humming a little tune to myself. Probably speeding or cursing the car in front of me. And all of a sudden, something caught my attention. I stopped and listened. This is what I heard:



Y'all, another state's tourism ad campaign made me cry. Not like sobbing or anything, but I had to blink back the tears. And you know what? The first chance I got, I went to puremichigan.org. Since then, I've become a little obsessed.

Through some quick research, I discovered that Tim Allen is the voice over talent, an agency called McCann Erickson created the campaign, the music is from the movie Cider House Rules and there are several radio and TV spots. I also found that the Pure Michigan website experienced an increase in traffic by almost 50%. This campaign is just that good. Phenomenally well-written and unlike any other tourism ads I've seen. Perhaps a bit overly sentimental at times, but I'll take that over flashy or tough any day of the week.

So what is it that makes these commercials successful? For me, it's that they remind me of my childhood and appeal to what I think is important in life--slowing down and enjoying it. What do you think? Below are a few of my other favorites:

I’m With The Scottish

I’m not normally superstitious (I’m just a little stitious – name that quote), but this morning I experienced the mother of all superstitions: the dreaded black cat. As I opened my front door to leave for work, an all-black cat bounded across my front porch, through the bushes and down my driveway out of sight. Yup, right across my path.

For a second, I actually froze and wondered what to do next. I imagined all sorts of trouble, from a car accident on the highway to one of the ventilation tubes above my cube at work falling and flattening me. Or something less dramatic but equally painful, like a black widow spider bite or someone accidentally serving me blow fish for lunch. But since calling in superstitious does not exist on our time sheet at work, I was forced the leave the house. (Although really, I understand that something catastrophic could have easily happened at home. I would just prefer to spend my last moments watching Family Feud repeats.)

Backing out of the driveway, I was surprised to see the cat still hanging around on our lawn. He had a friend with him; a big yellow thing lounging on the sewer plate looking relaxed and overly fed. In an instant I knew he was the ringleader, the Al Capone of the group. I stopped the car for a second to stare them down. I wanted to send a tough “don’t mess with my flowerbeds while I’m at work” message. But they eyeballed me right back, probably waiting for my car to burst into flames so they could exchange a feline high-five.

And then I noticed something. The black cat was not a cat at all. Nope, too small. It was just a sweet little kitten. So, I ask, will the curse still befall me? Can there really be a wrath of the black kitten? Will my bad luck be someone snuggling and purring me to death?

Interestingly, I did my superstition homework and found that according to Scottish folklore, a strange black cat on your porch brings prosperity. Hmm. I’ll keep my fingers crossed, but really, I think the only way this thing ends is with more neighborhood cats. Excuse me, kittens.

Welcome Back Lees Summit, Missouri!

I don't even know who you are, but I've missed you. Glad to see your time and date stamp information back in the live feed box. I am, by the way, being completely serious. This little blog (okay, me) hasn't been performing at a top notch level lately and I fear I've been losing readers. I have a handful of excuses, none of which are exciting, glamorous or acceptable. Let's just say my scattered brain has been elsewhere. So I'm back in the game, with an emphasis on effort. But......

Since this post isn't really about anything substantial and I've been inundating you with video posts lately, how about some Conan bloopers from hulu.com (if you haven't checked out hulu yet, I highly recommend it):

Everyone Thinks It's Disgusting

Cracks me up every time. Specifically the girl with the white sunglasses. Good advertising campaign:

Thank You

In Flanders Fields
John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

And today, decades later and in a different war, what more can we do to honor our troops? I think Bert has the answer--say thank you:

We Are Not Relations, Sir

See the link below. I have two comments:

1. Could she be the one who got away?
2. Only in small town America.

Okay, I really have three comments:

3. Wow, she's busty.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,520257,00.html

Oh. And name the movie that produced the title of the post. I'll even give you a hint--it's one of P's favorite movies of all time. Don't Google it!

Out There All Alone

It's a popular dinner party question: if you could transport yourself to any event in history, what would it be? The Last Supper, the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Beatles' first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show are all popular answers. And tempting, too. But none of those options involve a horse upsetting the entire field at the Belmont Stakes by 31 lengths while claiming the Triple Crown title in record time. If I could go, that's where you'd find me.

I've become increasingly fascinated with the sport of horse racing and all that goes with it. The breeding, the training, and the stories. Along the way, it's been amazing to see that these horses are athletes as well as competitors. And some of them, like a modern day LeBron James or Michael Phelps, are built for greatness. Enter Secretariat and his bid for the 1973 Triple Crown title.

For those of you unfamiliar, the Triple Crown is so difficult because the length of all three races vary and most horses are bred for different distances. So while a horse might shine at the Kentucky Derby, the longer Belmont Stakes will test its endurance. Knowing that, it's amazing when any horse wins the Triple Crown. But Secretariat set still-standing track records at two out of the three races, and won each leg in jaw-dropping fashion:

The Kentucky Derby: Not only did he win the Derby by 2 1/2 lengths, he ran each quarter-mile segment faster than the one before it. His quarter-mile times were:

1. 25 1/5
2. 24
3. 23 4/5
4. 23 2/5
5. 23

This means he was still accelerating as of the final quarter-mile of the race. Amazing.

The Preakness Stakes: Secretariat again won by 2 1/2 lengths, but this time he did it coming from worst to first. Just when it seemed like he was down and out, he pulled to the outside and blew past the field.

The Belmont Stakes: As I mentioned above, he won by 31 lengths. That just doesn't happen. He ran the fastest 1 1/2 miles on dirt in history, 2:24 flat, which broke the stakes record by more than 2 seconds. This record still stands, and in fact, no other horse has ever broken 2:25 for 1 1/2 miles on dirt. And Secretariat ran that time without another horse pushing him. Imagine if he would have had some competition. If you've never seen it, check it out:



Now that I've let a little of my inner dork shine through, here are a few more interesting facts:

• 5,617 winning parimutuel tickets at the Belmost Stakes on Secretariat were never redeemed. They were presumably kept as souvenirs (they only paid $2.10 on a $2 bet).
• Secretariat placed 35th on ESPN's list of 100 Greatest Athletes of the 20th Century.
• A necropsy (post-mortem exam) showed that his heart weighed 22 pounds, the largest ever recorded for a racehorse.

That last one really gets me. Like I said, some things are built for greatness. And eventually everything clicks and produces a unforgettable moment in time.

So yup, that's my choice. Somebody get Doc Brown on the horn and tell him to grab the keys to the DeLorean.

What Would You Attempt To Do If You Knew You Could Not Fail?

It's a fair question.

My answer? Launch a freelance writing career. Yup, that would be ideal. The ability to write on any subject, where I want (my front porch) and when I want (night owl). What stops me? The fear of failure, I suppose. Isn't that a shame?

How about you? What's your answer and what's stopping you?

A Conversation With Betts

I guess I should have taken a few minutes to explain my April 13 "Rainy Day" post. A few days ago, I had this conversation with my mother over the phone:

Betts: "By the way, what's the deal with your latest blog entry?"

Me: "What do you mean 'what's the deal' with it?"

Betts: "Well, I didn't watch it all the way through, but does it get funny?"

Me: "No, it doesn't get funny! It's not supposed to be funny. It's just a song I like with a cool video."

Betts: "Oh. I thought it was going to be funny."

Me: "I thought the headline made sense and was pretty clear. It's upbeat, so it's good for my rainy day mood."

Betts: "Yeah. Well, post something funny."

Does this count, Betts? Call me!

Things That Go Bump In The Night

It started a few weeks ago on a Saturday night. P and I had been out playing cards and arrived back home late, about 1:30 a.m. We went through the motions of letting the dog out, getting prepared for bed and locking up. Soon we were tucked in under the covers, ready for sleep. Just as I was about to doze off, I heard the light rumbling of an engine outside. It kept getting closer, starting and stopping. Soon it was outside of our house, just idling. I nudged P.

"Hey," I said. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" he asked sleepily.

"There's a car outside just sitting there."

"So?"

"Well, what if they're casing the joint?"

He laughed. "I'm sure it's nothing."

The car started moving, and eventually faded away. A few minutes later though it was back, creeping along the street behind us. I jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtain. It was just enough time to see a white van moving slowly down the street with the headlights turned off.

"The lights are off!" I said, jumping back into bed. "You've got to do something!"

P said nothing, sighed and got out of bed. I, of course, stayed in bed with my cell phone flipped open, ready for the "Call 911!" command.

P went to the sliding glass doors and watched the van. "They're doing something, but I can't tell what it is. I'd say dumpster diving, but it's the wrong day."

"Well, don't you think we should do something? Call someone?" I asked.

"No. If they come back through again, I'll call the sheriff."

With that, we went to bed. But the very next Saturday, the van was back. Same time, same creepiness. I was amped.

"I bet they're taking notes, trying to see who works 3rd shift, who might be on vacation, who lives alone."

P wasn't so sure. Even though I was practically begging him to call the cops, he resisted. "What are we going to tell them? There's a weird van driving around?"

"Exactly!" I said. "We're concerned citizens!"

He shook his head no and again told me that if they came around again, he'd call the sheriff.

As you can probably guess, I'm on high-alert at all times. I have hiding places around the house already picked out, and have an escape route (inside and outside) mapped out pending a burglary. I'm suspicious of almost all strangers. Is this guy really a vacuum cleaner salesman or is he just here to see if we have nice stuff? (So far, we've either been visited by legitimate salespeople or our stuff isn't that nice.)

I'm even suspicious of kids selling stuff door-to-door. A few weeks ago, we had a young kid, probably 11 or 12, knock on our door to sell us the Sunday newspaper. Something about selling enough subscriptions to win a day trip to Cedar Point. He'd told us he'd never been there before. Or Kings Island or any other amusement park, for that matter. I might not be a fan, but that broke my heart a little, so I wrote out a check even though he didn't have an official badge or anything. Felt pretty good about myself, too.

But the following Sunday? No paper. I checked my online banking account everyday, waiting for the check to clear. I was sure he was part of some dirty scam operated by shady adults. Finally, this past Thursday, it cleared for the correct amount. I was relieved, but still wondering if I would actually get a Sunday paper.

I'm telling you, scam artists are everywhere. Just waiting for you to let your guard down. But not me, I'm ready. Like last night, for example. Another Saturday night, except this night, I was waiting. And I was not disappointed.

The van was back.

Same time, starting and stopping all the way down the street until it came to a rest just outside our house. We were still; everything was quiet except for the hum of the engine. And then, a loud SMACK!

The sound? The Sunday paper, of course.

Perfect For My Rainy Day Mood

Mr. Howie Long, I Apologize

You win. Everybody loves your flat top. So continue to rock it with confidence.

Another win? According to my super-scientific poll, nobody confuses you with Howie Mandel.

I'm Curious: Should Howie Long Continue Rocking The Flat Top? VOTE!

In case you haven't noticed, another round of Chevy Truck commercials featuring Howie Long just hit the airwaves. In one of the commercials, Howie pokes fun at another driver who used a "man-step" to climb down from his Ford truck. The driver gets all sheepish and embarrassed that NFL legend Howie Long called him out. Howie, the hell? Should you really be making fun of others when you've been sporting the same haircut for the last twenty years? (Which, I might add, is the same haircut my brother and all his friends had in junior high. The timeline for that? Roughly twenty years ago.)

Howie, you're a handsome man. I'm fairly confident you could pull off almost any new look. Caesar cut? Check. Side-part comb over? Absolutely. The Troy Polamalu? Why not? You might even try one of those "man-steps" while you're at it. With all those years in the NFL, you're probably going to need it.

SN readers, what do you think? Take my poll to the right!

Aunt Marvine

Ever wonder what's in a nickname? I do, and frankly, it fascinates me. My own personal nickname is Mo, which is short for Maureen, and for as long as I can remember that's what people have called me. My family, teachers, coaches, even my high school principal. When I left for college, the nickname stuck even though none of my high school classmates went to the same school. And finally, at almost 30, most of my coworkers call me Mo.

I'm cool with it. I've grown into it and I like it. Occasionally though, I thought it was a bit unusual and it made me self-conscious. However, this was all long before I met my husband, who is apparently surrounded by people who consider nicknaming a sport. Chew on this list:

• Buzz
• Sparky
• Punk
• Stumpy
• Coondog
• Skeeter
• Schoolboy
• Fuzzy
• Popper
• Snuffy
• Bartley
• Hambone
• T-bone
• Railroad (you know who you are)
• Roscoe
• Double D
• Buck
• Fatty
• Tree
• Big Cheese
• Peg Leg

Now I've been informed by P that some of these are CB handles from way back that stuck. But most of them are nicknames that others simply made up. For example, "Fatty" is a nickname that was given by friends and is used regularly in lieu of his real name. I think they even shorten it to just "Fats" from time to time, but I would need Railroad to confirm this.

Walking into P's community of friends and family, I was known as only Maureen. It didn't take long though and I was given a new nickname. It all started when an uncle of P's mistakenly thought my name was Marvine. It was one of those situations where I had let it go too many times to turn around and correct him. So I just let him call me Marvine and hoped he would hear someone else call me by my real name. Enter another one of P's uncles, who was visiting from Florida. He heard the first uncle, his brother, call me Marvine and made a big show of how "her name is MOOORRREEEENNN, not Marvine." I was mortified and instantly became Marvine to a small circle of P's family in on the mixup. P's younger brother shortened it and now just calls me Marv.

So today while grocery shopping, I found myself stuck behind two women with two carts taking up a large section of the aisle. It was clear that the younger woman was helping the older lady with her shopping:

"How about some chicken noodle soup? You like that."

"Let's wait on the cocoa powder. We're going up to Amish country next week and you can get it cheaper there."

"You normally don't like pickles."

"The flour is right down this aisle, AUNT MARVINE."

Aunt Marvine! It's a real name! I laughed out loud and then quickly pretended that one of the coupons in my hand was hilarious. Odd as it sounds, it was somewhat comforting. It means that I have people in my life who would have laughed along with me had they been there. People I wouldn't know if I didn't marry P. And perhaps in my old age, I'll be able to count on one of these people to take me to the grocery store and remind me that I like chicken noodle soup.

If You've Already Seen This, Watch It Again--Part Two

I know this has been making its way around for quite awhile, but it's so inspiring I had to post it for those of you who haven't seen it yet. Truly awesome. It's nice to have a reminder that one of the most important things in this life is to love and be loved. Read the story and watch the video at the end. Break out the tissues. You'll need 'em:

Strongest Dad in the World [From Sports Illustrated, By Rick Reilly]

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots. But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars--all in the same day. Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much--except save his life.

This love story began in Winchester, Mass., 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;'' Dick says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. "Put him in an institution.''

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. "No way,'' Dick says he was told. "There's nothing going on in his brain.''

"Tell him a joke,'' Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? "Go Bruins!'' And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad, I want to do that.''

Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described "porker'' who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. "Then it was me who was handicapped,'' Dick says. "I was sore for two weeks.''

That day changed Rick's life. "Dad,'' he typed, "when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!''

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

"No way,'' Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, "Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?''

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? "No way,'' he says. Dick does it purely for "the awesome feeling'' he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992--only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

"No question about it,'' Rick types. "My dad is the Father of the Century.''

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you hadn't been in such great shape,'' one doctor told him, "you probably would've died 15 years ago.''

So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass., always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

"The thing I'd most like,'' Rick types, "is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once.''

Monessen, PA

Driving home from a weekend trip yesterday, I noticed an exit sign for Monessen, PA. As we got closer, the exit looked familiar. And it hit me. So I hit P. I grabbed his arm and said (probably verbatim):

"Holy crap! Monessen, PA!"

As he often does when he doesn't understand what I'm talking about, P shook his head back and forth with his mouth turned down, eyebrows raised and shoulders shrugged.

"You know. Monessen, PA. Where I got my first job offer out of school."

"Oh," he said, completely uninterested.

Maybe it's because I'm a woman, maybe it's because I'm me. But stuff like this completely fascinates me. I tried to explain.

"If I would have taken that job, our lives would be completely different!"

"Maybe," he said.

"What do you mean 'maybe'? You weren't out of school yet, so you probably would have followed me out here and gotten a job. Our lives would have started here instead of in Toledo and Detroit. We would be in a completely different place right now. I certainly wouldn't be at my job and you wouldn't be in yours. We'd have different jobs, different co-workers, different friends, different hobbies, different everything!"

"But we'd still be together, so it wouldn't be that different," he said.

I guess we just see things differently. Me, I marvel at how one decision could have completely changed my/our life path. I think about the people I work with everyday who I never would have met. What about my house, my neighborhood, the relationships we've built with the friends and family who now live so close to us? And how would life in Monessen, PA have treated us? Would we still be the "us" that we are now?

It's just crazy, I tell you. Almost too much to think about. But I will say this. Driving past the Monessen exit, I looked out at the town and thought: it would have been tough here starting out, just the two of us. I know we would have made it though. Maybe that's what P was trying to explain in his one-sentence way. That he'll love me and be my husband wherever our life path takes us.

Thanks for the reminder, Monessen, PA.

Unfortunately, Efficiency Doesn't Consider My House a Home

I imagine I'm not alone. It's impossible, I think. Surely someone else out there uses an old Macy's shopping bag as a holding facility for mateless socks. Anybody? No? Okay, then maybe not a Macy's bag, but any type of container, bag or box specifically intended for temporary sock storage. So those of you who have a similar system in place would probably agree that it's convenient, handy and practical. Inventive, inspired, genius. . .and rapidly filling up?

Maybe I was too smug. Too proud of my little creation, my Macy's bag of misfit socks. Maybe I underestimated the enemy, my adversary, my laundry antagonist. Producer of pit stain t-shirts-a-plenty. That's right. My husband.

Last week while doing laundry I noticed something that caused me to release an audible gasp. Are you ready for it? Brace yourselves, it's quite shocking. A matching pair of socks casually hanging out atop my Macy's bag creation. A true marital crime scene. Proof that my darling husband worked the system by throwing all our just-washed socks straight into the bag in lieu of matching and folding them. In one load of laundry, he turned my efficient "find a mate" program into a conniving "wife'll do it" system. Outraged, I stomped into the next room, bag in hand, and asked "Have you been dumping all the socks into this bag without even sorting them first to look for mates?"

Because my husband absolutely cannot lie, he tried to pull the old "What was that? I didn't quite hear you" routine. Let me tell you, I'm not a marriage veteran yet but I've been down this road before. I stood my ground and didn't say a word.

I raised an eyebrow.

He cracked. Produced a little smile. I wanted to yell at him, make him understand how his little stunt killed any efficiency I had going in the laundry department. But what can I say? I'm a sucker for his smile.

I guess things like this come with the territory, these little marriage games. Keeps it exciting, I suppose. I just hope he feels the same way when he finally realizes several of his aforementioned pit stained t-shirts have recently joined my brand new Laundry Witness Protection Program. Oh, it's nothing serious. Just a convenient, handy and practical system I put in place to make laundry time more efficient.

Is 'Unscientific' A Word?

Because that's the word I would use to describe my latest poll. Nonetheless, SN readers think Feed Jake is the Worst Country Song in Recent Memory. Could it be because it was the first choice? Most amusing? Or just because it's that strange? I guess we'll never know. Also, with 7 votes, it hardly matters.

For the record, I voted for I'll Walk. What can I say? I convinced myself writing the comments. I can't believe it didn't get more votes.

Guess What I Just Found In My Fridge?

Leftover green bean casserole from Christmas dinner. Yup, it was still sitting there in the same blue glass-covered dish I served it in. What's even worse is that as I type this, its home is still my fridge. I plan to deal with it after I cook and eat dinner tonight (or until I con P into a special cleaning project). NOT a pretty sight!

Housewife of the year right here.

Feed Jake (He's Been A Good Dog)

When I first met P, I was not what you would call a country music fan. Sure I had albums by Garth Brooks and the Dixie Chicks, but any true country fan will tell you that these mainstream artists don't count. P was the real deal driving around in a white pickup truck and listening to some guy named George Strait. The truck only had an AM radio, so our choices were Radio Disney or his collection of CDs. I got to know George and friends real well. Over time, I started to like it and expanded my personal collection to include a bit more country.

However, since becoming a fan, I've come across some of the goofiest songs I've ever heard. In addition to being hilarious, these songs confirm my belief that I could be a country music songwriter if I wanted to be. I just currently choose not to be. Anyhow, included below are my votes for Worst Country Music Song In Recent Memory. I'm setting up a poll to the right, so for the love of Waylon Jennings, please vote! And the nominees are:

1. Feed Jake - by Pirates of the Mississippi

I'm standing at the crossroads in life, and I don't know where to go. You know you've got my heart babe, but my music's got my soul. Let me play it one more time, I'll tell the truth and make it rhyme, and hope they understand me.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, feed Jake, he's been a good dog. My best friend right through it all, if I die before I wake, Feed Jake.

Now Broadway's like a sewer, bums and hookers everywhere. Whino's passed out on the side walk, doesn't anybody care. Some say he's worthless, just let him be. But I for one would have to disagree. And so would their mama.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, feed Jake, he's been a good dog. My best friend right through it all, if I die before I wake,Feed Jake.

If you get an ear pierced, some will call you gay. But if you drive a pick-up, they'll say 'No, he must be straight.' What we are and what we ain't, what we can and what we can't, does it really matter?

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, feed Jake, he's been a good dog. My best friend right through it all, if I die before I wake, feed Jake.

SN Comments: Let me just pause here to reiterate that these are real songs performed by serious artists. I did not make anything up or alter the lyrics in any way. So yes, The Pirates of the Mississippi managed to write a song that simultaneously tackles big issues like hookers, homosexuality and feeding a dog. Please don't laugh when I tell you that this was their highest-charting hit. Or laugh. What do I care?

2. I'll Walk - by Bucky Covington
We were 18, it was prom night. We had our first big fight. She said "Pull this car over." I did and then I told her, "I don't know what you are crying for." I grabbed her hand, as she reached for the door.

She said, I'll walk. Let go of my hand. Right now I'm hurt, and you don't understand. So just be quiet. And later we will talk. Just leave, don't worry. I'll walk.

It was a dark night, a black dress. Driver never saw her, around the bend. I never will forget the call, or driving to the hospital when they told me her legs still wouldn't move. I cried, when I walked into her room.

She said, I'll walk. Please come and hold my hand. Right now I'm hurt, and I don't understand. Let's just be quiet, and later we can talk. Please stay, don't worry. I'll walk.

I held her hand through everything. The weeks and months of therapy. And I held her hand and asked her, to be my bride. She's dreamed from a little girl, to have her daddy bring her down the aisle. So from her wheelchair, she looks up to him and smiles.

And says, I'll walk. Please hold my hand. I know that this will hurt, I know you understand. Please daddy don't cry. This is already hard. Let's go, don't worry. I'll walk.

SN Comments: Okay, I know this song is sad and it pulls at the heartstrings so I probably shouldn't make fun of it. But come on. It's so bad! Country music is notorious for doing the old "double-meaning" chorus. But I'll Walk takes it to new heights. She's going to walk home after the fight, but she's also going to walk after the car accident that paralyzed her. And finally, she's going to walk down the aisle at her wedding. Yes, the wedding where she is marrying the jackass who LET HER GET OUT OF THE CAR SO SHE COULD WALK HOME FROM PRESUMABLY THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE ON PROM NIGHT! This song wants me to believe that a father is going to let his 18 year-old daughter marry the guy who pretty much caused her paralysis? Impossible! I mean, can you imagine:

"Well, Mom and Dad, prom was great but on the way home Bucky and I got into a huge fight. I told him to pull over so I could walk home. And you know what? He did. So I stood there alone for awhile thinking he might come back. Finally, I started to walk and just as I was rounding a bend, I saw a car speeding straight toward me. It was then that I realized black was a poor color choice for my dress."

3. Honky Tonk Badonkadonk - by Trace Adkins
Turn it up some. Alright boys, this is her favorite song. You know that right? So, if we play it good and loud she might get up and dance again. Ooh, she put her beer down. Here she comes, here she comes. Left left left right left. Whoo!

Husslers shootin' eightball, throwin' darts at the wall. Feelin' damn near 10 ft. tall. Here she comes, Lord help us all. Ol' T.W.'s girlfriend done slapped him outta his chair. Poor ole boy, it ain't his fault.

It's so hard not to stare at that honky tonk badonkadonk. Keepin' perfect rhythm, make ya wanna swing along. Got it goin' on like Donkey Kong. And whoo-wee shut my mouth, slap your grandma. There outta be a law get the Sheriff on the phone. Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on.

That honky tonk badonkadonk (aww son). Now Honey, you can't blame her for what her mama gave her. It ain't right to hate her for workin' that money-maker. Band shuts down at two, but we're hangin' out till three. We hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave.

With that honky tonk badonkadonk. Keepin' perfect rhythm, make ya wanna swing along. Got it goin' on like Donkey Kong. And whoo-wee shut my mouth, slap your grandma. There outta be a law get the Sheriff on the phone. Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on. With that honky tonk badonkadonk.

(Ooh, that's what I'm talkin' bout right there, honey) We don't care bout the drinkin'. Barely listen to the band. Our hands, they start a shakin' when she gets the urge to dance. Drivin' everybody crazy. You think you fell in love. Boys, you better keep your distance. You can look but you can't touch.

That honky tonk badonkadonk. Keepin' perfect rhythm, make ya wanna swing along. Got it goin' on like Donkey Kong. And whoo-wee shut my mouth, slap your grandma. There outta be a law get the Sheriff on the phone. Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on. With that honky tonk badonkadonk.

That's it, right there boys, that's why we do what we do. It ain't for the money, it ain't for the glory, it ain't for the free whiskey. It's for the badonkadonk.

SN Comments: I almost don't even know where to start with this one. It's offensive on so many levels. I mean, it's obviously offensive to women, but I'm even more offended as a human being with ears. And a brain. "Shut my mouth, slap your grandma." This is songwriting? Trace Adkins made MONEY off of this song. People LOVE this song. My brother, who hates country music, even likes this song (although I think he might just like the video). Shocking but true. I guess maybe I should be offended that I didn't think of it first. I'd have money, fame, free whiskey! Yes! Yes! But wait...thinking it over here....Nope! Still hate it!

If you have a song you'd like to nominate, please do so in the Comments section. Don't forget to vote!

If You've Already Seen This, Watch It Again

I cry like a baby every time I see this. From the student section going nuts to the coach saying he sat on the bench and cried while it was happening, I just can't keep it together.

10 Things I Love...

...About Our Tuesday Night Bar Bowling League:

10. The fact that tonight, on our fourth week, I realized for the first time that it was called the Bar League. I pretty much thought it was just a regular old league. Noticing the other names on the results board like Wednesday Night Men's Competitive League and Thursday Night Kings and Queens League, I quickly came to the conclusion that we're the hooligans. So be it.

9. John's t-shirts. You don't know John. Heck, I barely know John, but I love his t-shirts. Each week, he treats us to something different. Tonight it was Yo Gabba Gabba. Last week it was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. What will next week bring? Personally, I can't wait.

8. That if P bowls a turkey (three strikes in a row), we get to see his turkey strut. It's magnificent.

7. The music. Where else can you hear the Zac Brown Band's "Chicken Fried" followed by T.I.'s "Whatever You Like"? And then hear both of them again within an hour.

6. My new-to-me pink bowling ball. I finally graduated to a 10-pounder and celebrated by having my initials engraved above the finger holes. Don't think I'm not legit!

5. Watching Ryan get better each week!

4. The team names. We're the Four Acres, which was the name of an old bar that caught fire and was destroyed in the town where P grew up. Other names include The Hillbillies, The Pour House and the Splitlickers. Just reinforcing our hooligan reputation.

3. The free practice. Sometimes the owner lets us stay late and bowl for free. We either amuse him, he likes us or he drinks too much on Tuesday nights. It's a toss-up.

2. The tight, tight blue jeans. I'm not talking about the ladies either. I'm fascinated by how some of these men manage to bowl. Yikes! With a little bit of ouch.

1. That tonight P announced "I don't know why, but at the bowling alley, the beer flows like wine." And he didn't even realize he pulled a Lloyd Christmas on us.

Who Wears Cloth Flats and No Socks With 5 Inches of Snow in the Forecast?

Me, that's who. Brrrrrrr.

Mom, I'm expecting your call. I will have no explanation for you.

SN Exclusive: My Dinner-for-One Recipe

Ever come home after a long day of work only to find an empty house? In this scenario, are you also starving because you only ate a stupid salad for lunch? If you answered yes, then I have a recipe for you. Grab a pencil and get ready to write this down. This recipe is sure to rock your world. Ready? Okay, here is what you'll need:

Tortillas
Shredded Cheese, preferably a Mexican blend but in a pinch, anything will do.
Sour Cream
Salsa

Sprinkle cheese on tortilla and heat for 45 seconds in microwave. Add as much sour cream as you can handle and then pour salsa where space will allow. Roll up tortilla, grab a drink and move to your couch. Enjoy some alone time watching tv, reading a book or surfing the web. If you're a balla like me, you'll probably eat three or four before you consider how bad this meal actually is for you. And then you'll grab one more because if you think about it, this is a vegetarian dish. Those are all healthy, right?

What's that you say? You don't always have tortillas in the house and are looking for a substitute? No problem! Simply replace the tortillas with a bowl, the shredded cheese with Lucky Charms and the sour cream with milk. A nice bowl of cereal is the perfect dinner-for-one and it doesn't even require the microwave.

Have any dinner-for-one recipes of your own? Share them in the comments. Come on. Don't be ashamed!

Myth or Mom Part Two: Pork on New Year's

Did your mom remind you, oh I don't know, three or four times to eat pork on New Year's Day? Mine did. And it wasn't an entirely friendly reminder either. It had a certain "do it or suffer the consequences" tone to it. Which is understood since P is somewhat of a magnet for accidents. Think I'm being dramatic? In five years of marriage, the following has happened to P:

#1. Sank one boat in approximately 50 feet of water.

This is a fun story. Ironically, it all started on New Year's Day four years ago. That's when we outbid someone else for a '94 Moomba skiboat that was within our price range. Despite the unfortunate sinking, I've got to hand it to P. I had given him two stipulations: the boat had to fit our predetermined budget and it couldn't be older than me. It took him six months to find the Moomba and we were shocked it was still so cheap on New Year's Day when the bidding ended. Apparently everyone else was busy eating pork because only one other person was bidding. We "won" and started planning our first boating vacation.

P spent the spring replacing old parts and just generally fixing it up. We took it for a test drive at a local lake and it ran great. So we got together a big group of people and planned a trip to Dale Hollow Lake over Memorial Day. Our first day there, P took turns taking groups of people out on the boat. I was in the first group, the non-sinking group, and experienced a few hours of fun before P arrived back at our campsite announcing the boat's demise. As he was chucking all of our brand new ski equipment from a good samaritan's boat, I asked "Is something wrong?"

"It sank."

Everyone at the campsite laughed.

"No, seriously," I said.

"It sank."

I looked at P's younger brother, who looked back at me and said "I think he's serious." I turned back to P.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Yup."

Then some sort of park ranger showed up. So began a fun couple of days where we had to hire scuba divers, rent the marina's barge and find a mechanic willing to work Memorial Day weekend. It ended well though. Insurance covered everything and after about two months with the mechanic, we got the boat back in like-new condition. We haven't had any problems with it since. Stays on top of the water and everything.

As proof, here are a few photos:

This is a picture of the boat hooked up to the barge. It sank in the main channel, so after the scuba divers found it, they had to hook it to the barge and drag it underwater to the marina. The various people who had gathered on the houseboating slips with lawn chairs, towels and snacks were extremely disappointed.

Here's P's brother helping get the boat as close to the surface as possible. We basically had to drag it underwater to get it on the trailer so we could take it to the mechanic immediately. I can't remember if the people in the jon boat pictured in the background were helpers or gawkers. Let me tell you, this incident was the talk of the marina. Every time we go back, at least one person asks us if we're the people who sank a boat.

Oh, one final thing. How did the boat sink? It was a combination of the bilge pump not working correctly and probably too many people in the boat. We were also missing an important piece of plastic above the swim platform that allowed water to come in slowly over the course of the four hour voyage. With the bilge clogged, the water began to weigh the boat down and eventually, the back end started taking on water. P managed to get it as close to the marina as possible before the engine died. Everyone jumped ship and had to swim to the boat slips. P stayed in the water and watched it slowly sink. It caught an air bubble and hung out with the nose sticking straight up for awhile. Another boat tried to tie a rope to the nose to see if they could taxi it in. No such luck.

Understand the hazards of eBay my friends. P had put in a brand new bilge after we got the boat, but the bilge wasn't the problem. The tube leading to the bilge was the problem. It was clogged with leaves and other junk. We also weren't aware that the plastic piece was missing. It was about $25 to replace. However, as bad as it was, it could have been much worse. Dale Hollow Lake is over 60 miles long. It could have sank in a cove or even a main channel in the middle of nowhere. And in several hundred feet of water. In which case, we wouldn't have gotten the boat back and would have had to pay a steep environmental fee. Whew. We really got lucky.

#2. Had emergency surgery in St. Thomas for a burst appendix.

So P finally talked me into going on a cruise. On the second night at sea, he started experiencing intense stomach pain. After it got bad enough, he went to the infirmary to see the ship's doctor. He gave P laxatives. In what might be my favorite line of his since I've known him, he opened up our cabin door, threw the laxatives across the room and announced "I've never been constipated a day in my life!"

He was right. After the constipation diagnosis, we got a flu diagnosis. Then after they had to admit him to the infirmary on the ship, put in an IV and give him morphine, they realized it probably wasn't the flu either. We had to disembark the ship in St. Thomas where an ambulance was waiting for us. Within two hours, he was in surgery. I started thinking it was pretty serious when the surgeon came out to the waiting room and told me his appendix had already burst so the surgery would be long and that I should plan on at least a five day stay. So it was fun for both of us. I had the task of calling his mother and telling her "Hey, your first born son is having emergency surgery in a foreign country. Yup, right now as we speak. But it's cool. The hospital has walls and everything." (It was actually a great hospital. We just didn't know what to expect.)

P came through the surgery okay, but had a rough couple of days after. His temperature kept spiking and it was fairly scary, especially since we were there alone. I refused to leave him so I pushed all our luggage together and slept on top of it. After five days the surgeon discharged him, and told us not to fly for a few days. But P wanted to leave immediately, so we flew to Miami the same afternoon and he recovered with his relatives in Coral Springs. Again, proof:

Notice the washcloth on his forehead and ice packs tucked under his arms. That fever kept coming back! I kept taking pictures because there was nothing else to do.

#3. Suffered from a case of meningitis.

It was viral though and not bacterial, so according to P it was "not a big deal." Again, fairly stressful until we got an official diagnosis. No pictures though, because it would pretty much just be pictures of him sleeping in bed.

#4. Had recurring staph infection.

For the longest time, P insisted the oozing open wound on his shin was an infected spider bite. I insisted that he should let a doctor figure that out. He didn't and because he refused treatment for so long, he passed it on to me through either our bed sheets or the shower. Then he got it again under his arm. Then I started getting a spot on my thigh. Finally, I scoured everything in the bathroom with bleach, threw out a bunch of towels, rugs and sheets, and washed all of our clothes in hot water. It was finally gone after about four months of popping up on one of us.

We still don't know how he got it in the first place, but I'm guessing it was from the hospital in St. Thomas. Oh, I also got hives from the medication I was on. So no pictures of either the staph or the hives because that's just gross. I think I actually have some though because the hives made me look hilarious.

In the end, I get my mom's pork request. (There have also been a few trips to the hospital for stitches--his flag football league used to get pretty intense.) So I told her I ate pork when in truth, I might have eaten pork. I had two hot dogs on New Year's Day. Whether they were beef or pork is up in the air. Guess we'll have to wait it out and see.

2008 Favorites

It's a little late, but here are some of my favorite things, events or people from 2008:

San Francisco - I didn't blog about it, but P and I took a trip to San Francisco in mid-November. He was out there training for his new job, and I joined him at the end of the week so we could celebrate our 5th anniversary together. We did all the touristy stuff, ate ridiculous amounts of food and had the best time together. In fact, it was so good that I let P talk me into going to the Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum on our last night. If you know us, you know that Ripley's is probably on P's top 3 favorite things about the trip and I haven't thought about it since we left.

Facebook - For the past few years, I've had some weird hesitation about joining a social networking site like Facebook or Myspace. From the outside, it seemed highly narcissistic (of course, so would blogging). But after signing up for a work-related project, I found it to be a great way to keep in touch, re-establish relationships and get to know people a little better. It also helps me to be the best stalker I can be. Kidding, of course. Kind of.

I'll Bag You Like Some Groceries - This is a line from Usher's song Love In This Club, which was released in February. I actually like the song (God help me), but just crack up every time I hear this line in the rap by Young Jeezy. Hmm. I'll bag you like some groceries. How do you bag your groceries, Young Jeezy? Forcefully? Tenderly? With proper weight distribution? Dare I ask if you, ah hem, double bag? It's so ridiculous that I love it.

By the way, most of the above information I had to look up on Wikipedia. Young Jeezy? Come on, I wouldn't know that guy without using a tool like Wikipedia. I live in an area small enough that it's called a village.

Tennessee - It was another great year for fun and fellowship in Tennessee. Camping, boating, friends, family, cards and the addition of the Cabana Islander. Oh, and I got up on slalom twice! Darn it that it's only January! For some pictures, click here. For videos, click here.

Chris Cooley - In case you don't know who Cooley is, this is all you need to know: he's a tight end for the Washington Redskins, he has awesome hair and he maintains a highly entertaining blog called The Cooley Zone. I first came across Cooley a few years ago while searching for a tight end in my fantasy league after some lightweight (probably Todd Heap) got hurt. This is the head shot Yahoo Sports had on file for him:

As most anyone would do after seeing that hair, I picked him up immediately. This year, I was all set to draft him, but the other lady in the league got him (friggin' Carrie) and I was stuck with my old nemesis (friggin' Heap). Anyhow, I found out he had a blog after he had a somewhat unfortunate incident involving his, um, grocery bagger (see Love In This Club). Really, I could care less, but I'm glad it happened because I wouldn't have heard about his blog otherwise. The Cooley Zone gives the everyday person a peek into the NFL, which I find endlessly fascinating. It's funny, honest and entertaining. Perhaps I'm projecting, but it seems like Cooley's the type of guy who has fun with life and realizes how darn cool it is to be an NFL player. And I dig that.

Fantasy Football - Speaking of the NFL, Lionel Richie Fan Club took home the silver this year! And $150! And bragging rights after beating all the guys but one! Really, I shouldn't be using all these exclamation points though. It's not a terribly surprising victory--I'm a top notch GM. And I'm going to bring it in '09 too.

Scripps National Spelling Bee/Numnah - Meet Sameer Mishra, an 8th grader from Indiana. While participating in this nationally televised spelling bee, he ran across an interesting word. Check it out:

Not only does this clip crack me up every time I see it, but I'm always amazed by his composure. Cool as a cucumber. By the way, Sameer went on to win the competition. Quite an accomplishment.

Kid Rock/All Summer Long - I love Kid Rock and I love this song. It's a great mashup of Werewolves of London and Sweet Home Alabama, and talks about summertime in northern Michigan. I know all about summertime in northern Michigan! I grew up in Toledo and spent many summers there. Could this possibly mean that Kid Rock and I are soulmates?!

Mayonnaise - Nothing in particular happened. It just continued to rock my world in '08.

This Blog - One of my resolutions for 2008 was to start writing more. With this blog, I've been able to do that fairly easily, and SN is quite possibly the first resolution I've ever been successful at carrying out. So it's depressing and momentous at the same time! I started writing just for myself, with no intention of any type of readership. But there are a few of you out there and I just wanted to say thanks!

It's only two days into the new year and I already have a few candidates for the 2009 list: the Four Acres bowling team (consisting of me, P, P's dad and best friend) and our new Wii. Can't wait to see how this year plays out!

Here's to a happy and healthy 2009!