Reason to Celebrate

We have reason to celebrate, albeit a small reason. I had set a goal to write a blog post every day, and I was doing great until about post number 320. Then I started working full time (meaning way over 40 hours a week) at a solar company, and I was “too tired” to write. That is both the reason and the excuse for why my writing stopped soon after I started working.

I was exhausted each day and would come home and work at night on my computer trying to set systems in place that would “save time” and make the company “more efficient.” So exhaustion was the reason the blogs stopped. The excuse is that developing new systems is not fun – you encounter computer glitches all day, the project starts running way over budget, things don’t work like they’re supposed to – even after 4,000 tweaks. In other words, the humor gets sucked out of your life like an elephant sucking up a peanut.

Which leads me to the question – why do elephants like peanuts? Maybe it’s the salt. Or maybe they like that crunchy shell, because that peanut completely disappears – they don’t spit out the shell, not any elephant I’ve ever seen. I’m going to ask Google.

I’m back, and glad I took the time to answer this very burning question, which leads to another question, which is, why do we call them “burning” questions? Is it the same reason that whenever my son gets money, it “burns” a hole in his pocket?

I could ask Google that as well, but I’ll save it for another day because I know you’re “burning” to know the answer to the question, “Why do elephants like peanuts?” The answer, according to “Denny” at Yahoo! Answers, is: “Because African elephants risk their lives in dark caves for halite (NaCl) for their daily diet. Now circus elephants love peanuts because they're rich in halite mineral, and they're abundant.”

My English teachers would say, “What’s abundant, the elephants or the peanuts?” even though they knew exactly which one you’re talking about. In fact, they would have passed out a worksheet with this whole answer on it for us to “circle the mistakes” because it is fraught with errors and, might I add, needlessly aggravating. For instance, you are probably scratching your head and saying, “What in the rabbit-assed hell is halite?”

No wait, that’s what my dad would have said. He had all these unusual sayings that seemed to be made up but fit the circumstances so you never questioned what he was talking about.

As to the answer, why couldn’t the jerk (Denny) just tell us, because you and I don’t know what halite is, and we don’t have time to Google it. But no, this is all he said. I knew from high school chemistry that NaCl is sodium chloride, better known to us lay persons as “table salt.” So the answer, apparently, is because elephants need salt and a peanut has it. The imbecile (that’s a great word by the way, and one I don’t get to use nearly enough) went on to say that peanuts originated in Africa, which at least is interesting. I did Google halite and Wikipedia says: ”Halite, commonly known as rock salt, is the mineral form of sodium chloride (NaCl)."

Which leads us (finally) to today’s topic, ie why do we have reason to celebrate? Because I had time and humor enough over the last year to write a few blogs, and I have reached 365! Which is the goal I set, even though it took me about 800 days to do it instead of one year. Break out the champagne! Hmmm, I wonder why we “break out” the champagne. Is it because we...aw heck, let’s just clink those glasses and celebrate!

The Dieter's Song

If you are like me, totally lacking in will power, then you’ve probably already fallen off the Dieter’s New Year’s Resolution wagon.

I made up a song to help us both climb back on and ride that thing the distance – or at least until the end of January, which I think is a pretty good success rate for an impossible New Year’s Resolution.

This song is sung to the tune of the “59th Street Bridge Song” better known as “Feeling Groovy” by Simon and Garfunkle. If you’re not ancient, you may not know the song, so here’s a link to listen (excuse the commercial at the first – it’s short): www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBQxG0Z72qM&feature=related

59th Attempted Diet Song

Slow down, you’re eatin' too fast
You gotta make that salad last
Just pickin' at the chicken bones
Lustin’ for more cause
I’m so hungry
Ba da da da da,da da friggin’ hungry.

Hello French toast
Whip cream flowin’
Can’t eat you - my belly’s growin'
Not one single bite for me
Do it do do do I’m so hungry
Ba da da da da,da da friggin’ hungry.

Got no cheese or booze,
No licorice or wheat
I'm starving and grumpy and feeling so weak
Let the morning scales drop all these pounds off of me...
Diet, I hate you,
I’m so hungry
Ba da da da da,da da friggin’ hungry.

Bible Bingo

Last night I won seventy-five bucks playing Bingo. They also let you pick an additional goofy little prize – last night they had a couple of glow sticks, a back scratcher, Pop Rocks, a candy necklace – some really cool stuff. And they had a Bible. A Bible. In the bar as a prize for gambling. It was a white Bible in a plastic wrapper about the size of a regular 6” x 9” paperback book.

I did not need another Bible, but the Catholic guilt in me launched a monologue in my head that I could hear even above the pounding music. The guilt said, “You can’t choose exploding candy over a Bible, how could you even think that. Pick it up right now and get it out of this den of iniquity.”

I heaved my shoulders back and said to myself, “Look, I don’t need another Bible and I really, really want those Pop Rocks.”

“If you don’t choose the best gift of all, every one who wins Bingo is going to come over here and make fun of the Bible. You HAVE to take it.”

This argument went on for an inordinate amount of time, but as you may well have guessed, guilt won out and I sheepishly grabbed the Bible and sulked back to the table.

“Oh my gosh,” Laurie said. “She picked the Bible!” Laurie and Olivia burst out laughing as if that was the funniest thing they’d ever witnessed. Olivia grabbed it and looked at the label on the back. “This thing was published in China, the most atheistic country in the world. So you won a Bible published in a godless country in a bar drinking beer and gambling.”

She prized open the plastic wrap. “Is it written in Chinese,” I asked.

“No it’s in English, but the words are microscopic,” Olivia said. The words were as small as the directions on a medicine bottle. “Nobody could read this.”

They kept laughing and making Bible-in-the-bar jokes until the guy came around with more Bingo cards. We bought cards and spread them out, dobbing the free space and getting prepared for the next game. Laurie put her hand on the Bible and said, “For good luck.” Olivia and I put our hands on top of her’s, and then started giggling because of the irony of that – asking the Lord to help us gamble successfully.

Turns out Olivia ended up winning on one of my Bingo cards, and we got 50 more dollars. Since it was my card officially, I was the winner, so I split the prize with them because by that time I’d have enough alcohol to make me magnanimous. We made Olivia go up and get the prize money, and she picked out the Pop Rocks. There were three little bags in the package so I ended up with my exploding candy after all. It was Karma – or whatever the equal to that is in the Bible. I think I made the right choice.

Reading Health Magazines Is Scarey

I was in a building permit office today waiting for a plans review – which is very similar to waiting at the doctor’s office and strikingly similar to waiting for a nurse to call you to get a colonoscopy or mammogram – you’re at the plan reviewer’s mercy, holding your breath that (s)he will accept the plans you’ve drawn and not ream you out with the words: “Looks like this is going to require engineering.” Because if (s)he says that, you’re immediately behind schedule by two+ weeks AND it’s going to cost you a whole ton more money that you didn’t budget into your solar system contract. Money will fly out the door like sun rays from the sun.

Since there is always a wait at these permit offices, they try to help you pass the hours with a few months’ old magazines. I picked up Shape magazine and within seconds found out I was at risk for glaucoma, skin cancer, and stroke – all for just being the victim of genetics.

Did you know that if you’re a woman who wears glasses, glaucoma risk rises – especially if it runs in your family (thanks to my grandfather who I affectionately called Pops).

Also if I wear sunscreen I’m more at risk for sunburn – why? Because I may artificially think that I can stay out longer, or maybe I’m not slathering on enough or often enough, or maybe it’s because I got up on the wrong side of the bed – scientists aren’t sure and even if they were, they will change their minds in a few years and everything they preached today will seem ridiculous a decade from now.

I could have a stroke for any number of very good reasons, many of which I can’t do anything about, such as having a parent whose had a stroke. Eating everything in site, including shoe leather and bugs, doesn’t help my case either. I’m just kidding about the shoe leather part, har har.

But now I must digress from this intriguing topic to let you all know, each and every one of you, that I just won $75 playing Bingo! I went out with a couple of girlfriends to Renner’s bar in Multnomah where they play Bingo on Wednesday nights. I went kicking and screaming - the place has been a little uncouth in the past with drunken bar maids slurring out the numbers and trying to be stand up comedians between calling numbers with no success whatsoever, but they have new management and it’s not as raunchy as before. Yes, there were a couple of comments about the Bingo “balls” but who can resist going there if you’re the guy calling Bingo. It was quite fun, all the more so because of winning and the beer and the cinnamon whiskey and the Jello shots with whipped cream.

Whoo-wee! I must elaborate more tomorrow – the bed is calling so loud my ears are ringing.

Hanging On to Christmas

It’s January 3rd and my neighbor still has a gajillion (I counted) Christmas lights up in her front yard. It’s lit up like a stadium over there.

I like them, but I was taught that it’s white trashy to have your Christmas lights on after New Year’s. You can leave them up all year round if you want (but that’s technically white trashy too), but if you turn them on Before Thanksgiving or After New Years, then, as Jeff Foxworthy says, “You might be a redneck.”

On the way home from the movie tonight (I saw, “We Bought a Zoo!” which was wonderful if you happen to like heart warming, feel good types of movies – I know this is not everyone’s cup of tea. Don’t get me started about blood and guts in movies. Why? Because I’m already off track with tonight’s subject and surely you don’t want me going even further afield? I didn’t think so.

On the way home from the aforementioned movie, I observed that about every 5th house still had their Christmas lights up. That equates to roughly 20% of the population in my neck of the woods being white trash, which seems much lower than the national average as seen on TV. My vision of the outside world as seen on TV may be skewed because the shows my husband gravitates to have names such as “Swamp People” and “Storage Wars.”

Not that there’s anything wrong with people making an honest living killing alligators and rummaging through other people’s abandoned storage units, but can you imagine the Rockerfellers or Kennedy’s engaged in these activities? I can just see one of these high-brows showing up boatside amongst the assorted crooked-toothed, scraggly-haired, cuss word slingin’, rifle-totin’ “stars” of one of those shows where they track down animals and shoot ‘em for their pelts right on TV.

“Oh, sorry there Mr. Rocketfeller, sir, but you jist steeped in a pile a gator shit right there.”

“Oh drat the luck, I will have to have my valet, James, sanitize them when we get back to our hotel suite.”

Judging from my TV, about 98% of the US population is white trash, and the other 2% are simply foul-mouthed, with beeps making up a good 70% of the dialogue. I bet they all still have their Christmas lights up.

Well, this is enough facts and figures for one evening. I have beat this dead horse senseless, and so I will ride him off into the sunset, where my path will be illuminated with the warmth of Christmas lights looking like Santa’s runway all up and down the January street.

The Interview

Last night my company had an interview with a non-profit organization, and we were so anxious to be awarded the work that we arrived a few minutes early to make a good impression.

We could hear an interview going on in the large office, but we couldn’t see it because of a partition.

We were greeted by a middle aged woman wearing a knobby tan ski cap with tassels hanging down the sides, ending just above her ample bosom, which gravity was pulling down like a boy ringing a giant church bell. The bright, multi-colored shirt she was wearing looked like it had come from the 70% off racks at a discount store. She had dark brown freckles on pale ale skin, and when we approached she kept her face level with the computer screen but raised her eyes to look at us and say, “Can I help you?”

“We’re here for the interview,” the company owner whispered. “We’re a few minutes early, do you have a bathroom?”

“Sure do,” she said, and hoomphed herself up from her chair, “I’ll show you where it is.”

“I’ll go too,” I said, thinking I could check my hair and see if I had any of that black stuff you get in the corner of your eyes if you wear mascara.

When the receptionist was finally on her feet, she was stooped over like little pine tree in a snowstorm. She put one foot deliberately in front of another, like a hospital patient inching down a long hallway with an IV pole.

She rounded the corner of her desk and started heading toward the aisle where the interview voices were coming from.

“Oh crap,” I hissed.

“I’m not going,” my boss whispered.

We stood there watching the receptionist progress along until she was beside where the interview was happening, muttering and not realizing we weren’t behind her.

“Oh my gosh, that poor woman,” I said. “I’ll go.”

I scurried toward her – this aisle was a good forty feet long and she had covered most of it. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I passed the interview table, noticing in my peripheral vision that there were at least five people – not counting the three from the other company with their backs to me – who saw me whisking by.

The receptionist stopped and turned to speak to me and saw that I was hustling to catch up. “Lord, honey,” she said in a voice oblivious that business was being conducted a few feet away, “I didn’t know you wasn’t behind me, I’ve been talking to myself the whole way.”.

She led me through a closed door, down a stretch of hallway, around a couple of corners and through another door or two. Finally she said, “Here it is!” - proud she’d accomplished this important mission.

I ducked into the door and started asking myself important questions in preparation for the interview, such as: “What were you thinking, you idiot? Why did you ask to go to the bathroom, you didn’t need to go to the bathroom? You looked like an idiot out there and now you have to walk past that table. There’s no escaping this blunder." Then I looked at myself in the mirror and found 9,000 flaws. “Oh my gosh, how are you going to go back out there looking like that and walk past table?”

I decided to skip the interview and stay in the bathroom. Seeing the impracticality of this, I figured I’d wait until I thought the other company would be gone.

When I thought it was safe, I crept out the door and turned to the right and encountered a network of cubicles and hallways - and freaking got lost. I’d been preoccupied with being an idiot so didn’t notice the hallways running in all different directions. I wandered around for an eternity until I finally discovered the main door that led to the other room.

When I got to the table, my company’s interview was already in progress. That threw me so off kilter that I could barely look anyone in the eye as the boss hurriedly introduced me. When it came my turn to speak, I started saying my rehearsed words, got a frog in my throat, cleared it two or three times, stuttered, stuttered some more, got a few things out before my brain fizzled on me.

No one asked me any questions.

I spent the whole evening and restless night worrying that I had blown our chances. I kept saying, “Why didn’t you make a joke like, ‘That’s really a journey to your bathroom - I felt like I was on some reality show and had been dropped in a maze.’ They would have chuckled and loved you forever. Why? Why? Why?

The next day, at 1:38 in the afternoon, we got a call saying we’d been awarded the contract. We must have been the very lowest bidder!

Hot Lips Nachos

I had nachos for dinner tonight and got way too liberal with the hot sauce and jalapeno peppers. Law have mercy! My lips were burning like someone was lighting them with a match. And yet I could not stop eating, so the flame barely had half a second to calm down before I put some more fire in my mouth.

I suffered through a rather large plate of nachos, and it never got any easier. Each bite was as hot as the last, and just as painful, and yet it was not a deterrent to me stuffing myself.

The weird thing is that once it got past my lips and into my mouth, which was also burning like asphalt on the equator, and then headed to my throat, it didn’t burn anymore. All the way down the chute to my stomach, I didn’t feel a thing.

This makes sense, when you think about it. Your lips and mouth are like two Buckingham Palace guards – they’re not going to let anything in that would do you any harm. If those guys can take the red-hot fire of spicy food, then they must figure that your cast iron stomach should do just fine.

I’ve popped things in my mouth and discovered that they were too freaking hot – as in like they’ve come out of an oven in Hades. When that happens I don’t spit it out, I simply make a big “O” with my mouth and say, “Hot! Hot! Hot!” and fan it a few times with my hand. And then I swallow the blistering tidbit so it quits burning - once it gets past a point, I can’t feel it anymore.

This is a wonder of biological engineering - a miracle of the human body.

On the other hand, some things go in your mouth all nice and easy-like, for instance the beans I had for lunch today, and then later they raise a ruckus in your digestive system like two Tasmanian devils wrestling in the belly of a tornado.

But I am not going to let this deteriorate into a discussion about flaming bottoms and lighting matches to see if they can ignite a blow torches when a person passes gas, and so forth.

Why can I NOT seem to get past bathroom humor?

When I went with my writer’s group to a retreat a few weeks ago, I got the “Humor” award, and the one line summary of me was, “Wait, wait – I have to go to the bathroom.” That pretty much sums me up – I don’t want to miss anything, hence the “wait, wait,” but the bathroom is always close by – either in my writing, in my talking, or when I’m rushing for it because of some extremely spicy food I had no business eating.

Okay, speaking of the toilet I have to tell a story, but it will need to wait until tomorrow because it’s too long for tonight when the bed is calling and my eyelids are as heavy as a full bladder. See, I just can’t get away from bodily functions……