My Funny Valentine

Every once in a while, my husband says something that absolutely cracks me up to the point that I can’t function properly. We were sitting at Wendy’s today talking about the subprime mortgage crisis. We are both of the opinion that the government shouldn’t bail people out of paying the consequences of their decisions. (My purpose is not to argue that point, but only to set the context of my new favorite Craig quote). So, anyway, we were talking about how if people don’t have to pay the consequences of their actions, they’ll never learn to use good judgment and Craig said sarcastically “I made a mistake when I got married the first time. Where was NAFTA on that one?” I don’t know why this made me laugh/continues to make me laugh so hard. I think it was the combination of the idea of the government paying for all of our mistakes and the absurdity of the North American Free Trade Agreement aiding Craig in his marital woes. (For the record, Craig does know what NAFTA is). Sigh…he’s so witty. I love that man…

What can you do with $100

My husband works at a medical residency and as part of the training, doctors have to practice various medical procedures and examinations. One such examination is the ultrasound. I am a big supporter of education and probably would have volunteered myself to have an ultrasound done at no charge, but as it was, they offered me $100 for said examination. Score! This post really is not about the ultrasound, but as long as we are on that topic, I might as well digress. I’ve never heard of an ovarian cyst discussed in a positive or even neutral light. Normally you hear “she had to have her ovaries removed because she had a cyst the size of a football” or “she passed out because of the pain caused by a cyst on her ovary” or “ she spontaneously combusted because the doctor told her she had a cyst on her ovary”. Because of the contextual implications of having overheard such discussions for the last 26 years, I was shocked to be sitting in the exam room, legs up on the table, with 6 doctors surrounding me and hear the words spoken casually “see that dark spot there—that’s a cyst”. I went into a state of panic and couldn’t figure out why no one else in the room seemed at all alarmed. Finally, after what seemed like 5 minutes, one of the doctors explained to me that cysts come and go and that there wasn’t anything wrong. Whew.

Moving on—so, I got my check for $100 and when I went with my husband to the bank to deposit the money, he suggested that I cash the check rather than putting it in the bank. What? Seriously? See—when a check is cashed, there is no longer any obligation associated with that money. Cash means that there is no record. Cash means that this money has no responsibility. Cash means that I don’t have to think that maybe I should have paid the Geico bill with this money rather than buying a new t-shirt. Cash is the best thing in the world because I can put it in the waterproof box in my sock drawer and think for weeks, months, even years about what I can buy with my cash. It is better than gold or cold fusion, or a 0% interest no payments for 3 years credit card with my name on it. See—if money is in the bank and we talk about buying new shoes with it—that offer is only good until the money is spent on something else and then the shoes are no more; but cash, well, cash is different. Cash is a dream. It must be savored. It must be treated with respect. It must be cherished.

So far, I’ve thought of the following ways to spend my $100: office supplies, a coat, garden hose, water bottle, workout clothes, yoga videos, titanium mugs, warm socks, hiking boots, shoes, earrings, camisoles, cardigans, funky short dress pants, nice jeans, a swimming pool (okay, I know that one doesn’t add up), books, take my husband to dinner, dish towels, bath towels, anything Dragonfly sells, nail polish or a massage.

So, basically I’ve spent the money 6.8 times, but at the same time I haven’t spent it all. Cash glorious cash. I think I’ll spend it another 10 times before it is gone…or else I’ll blow it all on Wednesday—I have the day off of work!

Some Things Never Change

I loved the game Candy Land when I was a kid. I loved the colorful board, the Rainbow Trail, the dreams of a peppermint forest, a lollypop land, a chocolate swamp…in fact, the only thing I loved more than playing Candy Land was winning Candy Land. There’s not a lot of strategy that goes on in the game. You basically just draw cards and move your game piece based on the color on the card you selected which means that the only way you can actually maintain any really interesting elements over the long term is to cheat at Candy Land.

I have a younger brother. He’s 23 and I’m 26. I should be really ashamed of what I’m about to tell you. Actually, I was really ashamed of what I’m about to tell you, but then I told my brother this same story and I think once he got over the initial period of devastation he had a good laugh about it.

When he was 4 and I was 6 Candy Land was starting to get a little uneventful. I figured out that if you place the Queen Frostine card not at the top of the stack, but the second card down and then let your younger, sweet, and unassuming brother go first, then you look like a good sister for letting him go first, and then 9 times out of 10 you’ll win the game. I don’t know how many times I actually pulled this scheme off. I did it enough times that I remember it well. (Sorry Tony!)

On Saturday, my step-daughter and I played a round of Memory. She’s 5 and she’s getting better at the game, but she’s in that phase where she doesn’t like it if you are giving her the answers, so you can’t do that, but if you let her win on her own merits it takes a Monopoly length of time to play Memory. So, I beat her at memory, with the understanding that we’d be playing Candy Land next and hopefully she’d win that.

So, we started Candy Land. It was exciting—I hadn’t played in years and I felt my well honed, but rusty skills coming back. I hadn’t planned on cheating…but then it happened. Twenty years later I cheated at Candy Land again. Okay, calm down everybody. You know I’m a bigger person than that. So, yes, I did cheat, but here’s how it went down. We were playing and everything was going along just fine. It was my turn. I drew the pink card with the sparkling ice cream cone on it—Queen Frostine!!!! I, almost without thought, moved my game piece to where my mind knew Queen Frostine’s land lie on the board. I was then taken by shock when I saw the words “Princess Frostine”. What??!! Why would the makers of this most time honored, beloved game change the name of our great candy queen? I still haven’t fully recovered from the disappointment and shock, but I pulled myself together enough to re-focus on the game at hand. It was at this moment that I realized I had much bigger problems than the renaming of a practically religious icon. I was going to beat my step daughter at game number 2 for the day. This couldn’t happen. She was supposed to win Candy Land. Crap…what could I do? I panicked as I took my next turn…the double red. This was seriously bad news. A double red meant that I would be too close to the end! I’d only have two, maybe three more turns to somehow get my stepdaughter from the Gumdrop Mountains to King Candy before I did. So, I reverted to the only real Candy Land skill I have. I cheated. Ali had looked away as I drew my double red…so I drew again. This time a yellow. Whew…that I could deal with. So, the game went on and fortunately, as a result of my cheating, I then proceeded to also draw the Peppermint Forest and then my troubles were over.

Yes world—I lost at Candy Land.

It was a great moment for me as I realized that, even taking into account all of the dumb things I do on a regular basis, and contrary to many people’s beliefs, I’ve actually grown up a little bit.

Don't Start Over--Just Fix It!

I try to keep this blog interesting and fun to read, but today I’m going to delve into a little Boise history, so if you think history is boring, keep reading!! I desperately hope that when we die and go to heaven we can, somehow, experience life in other parts of the world, or in other parts of history. It would be so fun to live for a day as a pharaoh in Egypt in 1200 BC (don’t question my time reference, I have no idea when the pharaohs lived), or be the Queen of England for a week, or be a high roller in Vegas for a couple of nights, or spend a day as a kid with a dollar in Boise Idaho in 1930. Oh, you think that last one sounds boring, eh? Well you don’t know what I am about to tell you! If you’ve ever been to the Natatorium, you know that it is a city pool—a pretty cool one as far as city pools go. They have a slide…and a pool…I think they have nachos…maybe a drinking fountain. It is pretty nice. Okay—are you ready for the really, really, really exciting thing you are about to learn? This is pretty much as cool as the movie National Treasure. Here goes—the Natatorium used to be a beautiful building built after the design of a Moorish structure. It had a pool with a huge slide, a rock fountain at one end, was 14 feet deep, had private baths filled with natural hot water, 120 dressing rooms, and banquet rooms with hardwood floors! Additionally, there was a complex behind the Natatorium (in the area that is now a sewage treatment plant) which was called “The White City”. The White City had a roller coaster, a “fun wheel” a little steam train, and a skating rink. (I’m sort of questioning the skating rink—it came from an oral history of someone who I’m assuming was probably pretty old when he gave said history. I’ve heard/read more than one account of all the other stuff though, so I think it was real.) Okay, if you are not convinced that this is absolutely awesome, check out the photos below.

Just like so many other things that have gone the way of the earth, the Natatorium fell victim to a windstorm, a fire and people who wanted to speed up “progress”! I'm going to have to declare "shenanigans" on that last one. This is just one of those cases where new was NOT better!

We'll be in SO much trouble!

I got a new cat yesterday. To those of you who know me this will come as an utter and complete shock. No, I’ve never liked cats much, but here’s the deal. Craig is gone a lot right now. He’s super busy and I thought it would be fun to have someone to hang out with. I LOVE dogs, but they are so high maintenance. Basically I need someone to chill with when Craig is gone and someone who can be completely abandoned when Craig is home. Child? No. Friend? No. Dog? No. Basically I’m left with either a cat or a person who is not my friend but whom I pay to hang out with me at night. Humane Society—here we come!
So, Craig and I headed over to the Humane Society and found my new buddy who we’ve bizarrely named “Couch Kitty”. The explanation is long enough to warrant its own post. So, I don’t have a real picture of her yet, but here’s the picture from the Humane Society’s website.
(At this point I’m going to launch into a completely different topic, so humor me and be sure to note the caption on the photo.)

We are going to be in so much trouble when she turns 16

It is a proven fact that parents think their kids are the cutest kids on God’s green (well, technically blue, green, brown, red) earth. The thing that boggles my mind about this is that they notice this folly in other parents, but are completely oblivious to it in themselves. I spent some time yesterday morning looking at several blogs belonging to mothers who all think that their children are the cutest out there.

One thing that absolutely makes my skin crawl, my blood boil, my vomit rise, is when mothers post pictures with the caption “we are going to be in so much trouble when she turns 16”. Okay, so stick with me for a second while I walk you through the two disgusting things about this caption.

Most girls look like their moms, right? So, basically what a mom is saying in a round about way is: you know how you just said how much she looks like me? Well, think about how hot I am and how much guys want me and yep, guys are going to want her too. So, problem #1 with this caption? Mom is conceited.

Next problem. Kids don’t think much about their sex appeal when they are still pre-school aged, so really, why are their parents? It is SO—creepy childhood beauty queen—to post these photos on the internet of their kid dressed up with jewelry, makeup and hair done. There’s problem #2—mom is making suggestions about her 4 year old daughter’s sexuality.

Alright, this post could be taken pretty seriously, so don’t freak out on me—if you’ve ever scrolled to the bottom of my page you’ve seen my favorite quote which is “Look for the ridiculous in everything and you will find it.” I know I don’t know what I’m talking about since I’m not a mother. I don’t have kids so, no, I’m not capable of understanding your logic. People are constantly imparting that bit of wisdom upon me!

So, as for me, I’m sticking with Couch Kitty. She’s spayed, and I’m pretty sure she’s not a virgin, so I don’t think I have to worry much about the boy cats down the street wanting to hook up with her. Oh, and for the record, she’s the cutest kitty on God’s green earth.

Robie

There’s a half marathon here called “Race to Robie Creek”. It is grueling—8 miles up hill and then 5 miles downhill. I cannot figure out why, but people flock to this race. Okay, not only do people flock to it—I flock to it. I’m not a good runner. I am not built like a runner. I don’t win races. I rarely improve on my personal records, but for some reason I, along with thousands of other people, flock to this race. Maybe it is because we are driven by the sheer intimidation of a race that we can not fully conquer. Some people say it is the beer at summit. I don’t drink beer, so I can’t say how attractive it is, but I’m thinking that if you’re going to drink a beer, why pay $40, run 8 miles uphill, 5 miles downhill, kill your feet, legs and back, and then have to take a half hour bus ride at the end in order to get your beer? Why don’t you just run over to the convenience store? My point is that I think that “they have beer at the summit” is an extremely lame excuse and a cover for some other hidden attraction of Robie. The problem is that the “hidden attraction” has been, for me, impossible to nail down.

Basically, I think Robie is a rite of passage for anyone who lives in southern Idaho who considers themselves a “runner”. Until you have taken on Robie, you are really just someone who lives in Idaho and runs in Idaho, but after you have run Robie, then you can call yourself a runner. You know that any other runner you encounter on the streets will ask you if you have run Robie and you can proudly say that “yes, I have…and I walked the steep part and I’m proud of it!” I’m sure there are those out there who will argue that my theory is a bunch of crap, but it makes a lot more sense than the beer at the summit, right?!

I just read through my last post. For those of you who have been waiting with baited breath to hear how well I survived my desk move (ha ha…all one of you who reads this)…yes, I am still employed, still happy, and still have all of my desk décor happily organized at my NEW desk.

I had several alleged downsides to my new desk listed in my last post. The real ones turn out to be the following:

1. I have to time my blog posts/bank account reconciliation/vacation planning/research/homework/shopping with one particular person’s lunch break. By so doing, I have thus far been able to avoid being fired based on inappropriately using company property i.e.—using the internet when I’m supposed to be working.
2. It is cold over here too.
3. I can’t lean really far over and see out the window…so I’ve resorted to looking at weather.com during a particular person’s lunch break.
4. No one comes to talk to me anymore (except during a particular person’s lunch break). I’ve remedied this problem by going to talk to them (a unique idea, I know), which seems to be working out okay, plus that way I have to walk more and I’ve lost 4.4 pounds since moving to my new desk.
5. My computer speaker wires were damaged in the move. I tried to plug them in on day one and shortly thereafter I began to smell burning. So—I’m working on finding some cheap computer speakers. No music for now.
6. I’m REALLY bored. I get my work done so much faster now that I sit by a particular person…who actually doesn’t take a lunch break every day.

I think those are all of the “bad” things about my new desk.

There is one very big plus. I spent the bulk of my work days last year trying to contrive ways to wear out my computer monitor. It was created in about 1986 and it was that creamy color that NEVER looks clean no matter what you do. I was thrilled the first day I came to work after the move to find out that, not only did the IT department move my tower to the correct desk, but also, they left me with a beautiful black flat screen monitor. It was the best day of my life thus far. Okay, not really, but it is so awesome. The flat screen more than compensated for the fact that my new desk is smaller by taking up such a miraculously tiny amount of space that I now have a gigantic empty area on my desk. Yea! I feel so executive!

Oh, also, I love that my new keyboard has some of the letters worn off. I used to have all of my keys mixed up on my keyboard just for fun, but one time I came back from vacation and someone had put them all back in the supposed “right” place. So, this gives me a little of the feeling of having a renegade keyboard. Rage against the machine, right?!

All in all, I’m satisfied.

Change

One of my personal mantras is: "change is good". Sometimes I say that because I really feel it and other times it it because I need to remind myself that it is good. Once in a while I say it to shut up other people who would rather complain than embrace change.
Every once in a while, though, my mantra changes to be: "Change is good...except for when it sucks". I found out this morning that I am probably going to have to move to a new desk at work. Yes, my new desk will be in a logical location. According to the management "team" (the word "team" makes me feel like I'm at Target...I can even smell the cheap popcorn...) is the motivating factor behind the desk shuffle.

I love my desk. I told my manager this. I'm guessing he's much more concerned with logical placement than with the following:

1. I have spent 1/3 of my life at my current desk for well over three years now. You don't realize how much your desk feels like your home until you are faced with a potential desk shuffle.
2. I have plenty of warning when someone is approaching my desk--giving me sufficient time to "alt-tab" off of my hotmail window, my threadless window, my bank window, or...my blog window.
3. My new desk smells funny...sometimes like B.O. Sometimes like rotten salsa...sometimes like sewage...
4. My best work friend sits right next to me, so I can work/play at the same time
5. (in a whinny voice) I don't wanna sit by THOSE people!!!! Nobody will come talk to me!! Sigh...
6. I will no longer be able to lean way over to the left and see whether it is raining/snowing outside.
7. Moving sucks
8. My desk only has 2.75 cubicle walls. I like my .25 non-wall.
9. My humongus file cabinet won't fit at my new desk. I can just see it now...people will start thinking about using my file cabinet...then they will push my stuff over to the side a little...then they will start putting their crappy stuff in my file cabinet...then pretty soon they'll steal the key and lock it and I won't have my humongus file cabinet any longer. Then stuff will pile up on my desk and pretty soon I'll be like "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout who would not take the garbage out".
10. Finally--my new desk will be 12 steps further from the entrance to the building than my old desk. This will delay my exit to the building by approximately 3.6 seconds.

Alrighty then...it occurred to me that several of my reasons for not wanting to move stem from my desire to not work the full 40 hours that I'm being paid to work.
So...in the spirit of sick optimism, here is my list of benefits to moving:

1. It is warmer at my new desk (I'm always freezing).
2. Forced detailed cleaning of my desk
3. I'll have to work harder...I don't know how that is a good thing, but it seems like it should be for someone
4. maybe those 12 extra daily steps will help me lose weight...(Okay, I know this one isn't true because I currently walk over to my new desk about 6x per day so I'll actually be walking less)
5. who doesn't love staring at a blank wall all day? (Oh crap...I forgot that I was listing GOOD things now)
6. Change is good

I really did mean that last one. The fun thing about change is that you really don't know what new things you will encounter during a change. You can take time to weigh the pros and cons of a situation like this, but you really have no idea what the pros will be.
So, here I go: embracing this change with a good attitude and lots of hope for a new desk, a new year, and maybe a new unknown talent that can only be unleashed by moving to a new desk. (Okay, that last part was just dumb).

kill 'em with kindness

Is annoying people with kindness mean? My job is not to answer phones. When I took my job, I didn’t anticipate having to answer phones…but I guess someone has to do it and in order to keep my job, I find myself having to answer phones. I work at a newspaper and I take A LOT of calls from people—just for kicks, let’s call them “crazy people who think they are really cool”—who think several things.
1) THEIR opinion is the only thing controlling the decisions made at the paper. Yes, your subscription is valuable, but truthfully, we don’t value your subscription enough to spend thousands of dollars on a new ad entry system.
2) Yes, they hung up and therefore got out of line to place a classified ad in order to yell at me. That makes it my fault that they got out of line and therefore, I should transfer them to an imaginary line where they don’t have to hold...(FYI—yelling at me won’t get you what you want.)
3) Everyone should be in the office sitting at their desk at all times waiting for phone calls. I’m no journalist, but I think it would be pretty hard to do investigative reporting while sitting at my desk taking phone calls. The kicker is when they tell me that they don’t have time to sit at their phone and wait for a call back…huh…that makes sense.
4) Some people “don’t believe” in voicemail. I have no idea what that means.
5) Some people think that if they don’t get their credit issue resolved immediately, the world will end. I don’t know why they couldn’t call at any point over the last 90 days when our credit rep wasn’t using the restroom. It is remarkable.
6) I spoke with a woman today who was on hold in our classified line for “600 years”. I kicked myself after I hung up with her for not asking whether took time to watch any part of the Revolutionary War while she was on hold.
This is just a sampling of the things that people will do/say/think (or are they thinking at all?) when upset.
So, the question remains—is insincere kindness a method of insulting the customer, or is it the best way to keep people calm? I’m not sure—today a gentleman offered to buy me a drink and is going to send a letter to my manager—all because of my insincere kindness.

And They Say Cars are Just for Driving

Yes, it has been 41 days since I last posted…it would be boring for me to list out my relatively pathetic excuses and even more boring for you to read them. So—moving on.
When I was born, my parents owned a 1973 red convertible Volkswagen Super Beetle. My grandpa had bought it for my mom as a high school graduation present. This started my family’s now long standing passion for Farfegnugan—the people’s car—German engineering—the cute little body styles and wide variety of colors.
Since then, my parents have gone through two Bugs, two Vans, two Jettas, and two Cabriolets.
When I moved out of my parent’s house I was poor and scared of owning an unreliable car, so I was left alone and depressed; driving a Chevy S-10 truck that was loaned to me by my grandparents. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated their generosity, but if you have ever owned a Volkswagen, you know what it is like to feel the legendary “farfegnugan”; you have felt a connection with your car unlike any other. You know what it is like to sit in the drivers seat, hugging the steering wheel, crying and apologizing to your car for smashing its headlights, hood and fender in the accident; as if it was a friend…uh…maybe that was just me.

Anyway, I find it interesting that the most depressing six years of my life coincided with the six years when I didn’t have a VW in my life.
My first marriage lasted for three years. I should have known that it wasn’t going to work when he convinced me to buy a Mazda. Yes, Mazdas are reliable and well engineered, but for me, they are like a dress from Ann Taylor. Pretty cute…well made…but they just don’t ever fit quite right.

I knew I was in love with my new husband long before I saw his ’64 VW Bus; but seeing it made me believe that he was someone I could love forever. If you are reading this and thinking that the last sentence is the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard, chances are that you don’t have a VW sitting in your garage. My husband and I have a baby blue Cabriolet and his freshly painted red and white Bus sitting in our garage. While our relationship is held together by so many things besides the Volkswagen blood that runs through our veins, it is always nice to know that deep down; we’ll forever remember the happiness we found together as VW drivers.