It's Funny How Life Turns Out

On July 22nd, my friend and I took a much-needed vacation to Jamaica. It was B-E-A-UTIFUL and very fun. Even if it WAS sans luggage.
We arrived in Jamaica at about 12:30 a.m. on July 23rd. Yes, we were late. Blame it on my terrible "luck" (or what is the opposite of luck? Curse?) in traveling. The plane to Jamaica was delayed due to the airplane having a cracked windshield...
?
When have you EVER heard of a plane getting a cracked windshield?

As we approached the baggage claim area in Jamaica, I couldn't see my bag.
It was one of those moments like when you walk out of a store and look at where you think you parked your car and it's not there. Aka, a Panic Attack. Turns out, Delta told me, that someone stole my luggage from the Baggage Claim area. It had been scanned in, but once it got out to the floor, they no longer could find it anywhere.
I was DEVASTATED.
I mean, BAWLING. It doesn't help a situation like this to actually have Panic Disorder, and the drugs to help you NOT have an attack are in the aforementioned M.I.A. luggage.

Meh.
Life goes on.
I didn't let it ruin my trip. I'm not too attached to physical things. I AM, however, quite sentimental about the littlest things. This sock, that bra, these swimswims... all have great stories behind them.

Fast-forward to last night, August 31st.
It's 9:45 P.M. and I'm leaving class, and see that I have a missed call and a voicemail. I'm walking with friends mind you. It's funny how you can multi-task on certain activities in some situations and not others. I.e., I'm perfectly capable of walking, listening to voicemails, and carrying on conversations with people I'm walking with.
However, once this voicemail started, I had to come to a HAULT!!!!
It was a lady from Delta.
They had located my luggage, and they were going to send it out for delivery immediately.

I bawl almost hysterically.
Then, I speed home.

I'm going through stashes of purses and nooks and crannies trying to find the key to the lock to my suitcase. What if they bring it to me, and it still has the lock on it, and I have no way of opening it?? THAT would be my "Luck" (curse?)

Waiting.
Sitting, waiting, wishing, hoping. Isn't that a song?
Go lay down on my bed.
...

Next thing I know, the guy is ringing my doorbell at 1:02 A.M. ? Where the heck has he been?

When I opened the door, the guy had left it standing on end in front of my door, and already was getting back in the elevator.
Like, “I’m just going to leave this here. I don’t care if the lady didn’t hear me knock and if anyone steals it. This broad has been without this shiz for over a month”.

I stared dotingly at my bag.
Oh, I love you, Bag.

I pulled it in to my apartment, unzipped all the pouches, and noticed that nothing seemed to be missing (except key exterior items; ie, a lock, a zipper pull, my name placard).
I went into the bathroom, took a Klonopin and a bath, and went to bed.

This morning I woke up and pulled everything out individually.

My black dress.
I pulled it out, held it up in front of me by the shoulders, stared at it admiringly with my head tilted to the side and stars in my eyes, then pulled it in to my chest and gave it an extraordinarily loving hug. * Muah* Black Dress.

My Rainbows.
Black ones. and Tan ones.
Ironically, my backordered replacement Black Rainbows should be delivered today. Sigh. I had to work so hard and wait so long to get these replacements. Do I just turn around and return them?
I tried the left one of each on, because I already had my boot on my right foot. I wanted to wear my black ones to work today.

My swimswims.
My swimswims. : ( I had put them all in a plastic grocery bag when packing. Thinking of all the moments and pictures I wish I had been wearing them instead of my too-small, cheaply-made obligatory purchases made me upset, so I did NOT pull them out and love them. I will do that tonight. Because the pool in my complex is open again.

My jewelry.
Oh, you sexy ivory bangle, you. But not real ivory. That’s cruel. But it looks like it. Looks great with sexy jeans and a black top.
And miscellaneous earrings. Hoopies and Turquoise danglies. Oh, you guys are just too much. Who could live without you?
Necklaces! You get on my neck RIGHT this instant! Oh, my jade-beaded necklace. I wore you to Club Jam only a week before I left, where a gay man asked me if you were a real “Pearl Necklace”. We both giggled. Yes, you did too, Jade-beaded necklace.

My skirts, sundresses, and swimswim wraps.
You were each dearly missed. I’m saddened at the thought of loss of usage over the past month during other excursions.
Next year, sexy black Victoria’s Secret Swimswim Cover-up-- I say as I shake my finger at it-- Next year.

... Unless, of course, I can talk Delta in to giving me a flight somewhere warm and sunny where I can wear my stuff all over again. Then, maybe sooner. : )
But with my traveling luck/curse, I'm not going to plan on it.


The beginning picture of this post is one I took on our way hiking through random Jamaican jungle. I found the self-made fencing beautiful in a way. Little did I know, that behind that shanty of a wall, was this breath-taking natural crystal-clear spring.
In life, you just don't know what's hiding behind third-world shanty fences...



And today, I feel a complete contentness with the Universe.
Thank you, Karma.

A Brief Rant

... To Continue on with my Fashion Faux Pas education...


* This post may be uncomfortable for men. If this gets your panties in a bunch, please disregard. *

I see this EVERY DAY of my working life.
I ask you; nay, i BEG you-- What is wrong with society today?



It has come to my attention that I should host another Webinar.

Entitled:
VPL: Visible Panty Line and you. Where to draw the line.

Ladies. (and some gentlemen). I don't want to be crass. But honestly. Let's get real here. We wear our Underwear UNDER our clothing for a reason. No one else wants to see it. Well. Some people may want to see it. But that needs to stay in your bedroom.

There are several components to keeping your skivvies a well-hidden secret.

* Number 1: Please don't wear clothing that's too tight. Mike D might have lyricized, "Her pants are tight and that's ok", but that cannot be applied as a generality toward all women. If you wear too-tight pants, no underwear in the world is going to be ok.
Case in point:


One might say, "What about one of those 'thongs' I've heard so much about. They're a cure-all for VPL's, aren't they?

Wrong.

* Number 2: Don't wear underwear that's too tight. Be them briefs, boyshorts, thongs, or any other style. Unless you have less than 1% body fat, your skin/fat rolls will be occipitally offensive.
Let me introduce Exhibit A.



Thongs need to be loose enough that they do not leave an indentation on the skin.
That being said, even if you have a fit body and your thong is well-fitted, some outfits just need to be paired with either Spanx or going commando.

Entre Exhibit B.



Now.
On to Parachute Panties.


Heck-to-the-No.
I understand women that would like a more "total support and comfort". However, Parachute Panties are not the answer. Your pants will inevitably gap in back, and these things bunch up and look like they are ready to deploy at any second to be used as a flotation device.
* Number 3: Do not wear parachute panties. The top of your panties should never come higher than your hip bone.

I will share just one last rule before I wrap up this post.
Concerning White pants/skirts/shorts/clothing.
Yes, when you wear a black shirt, it is a good idea to wear black underwear.
When you wear red clothing, it is a good idea to wear red underwear.
HOWEVER!!!
When you wear white ANYTHING!!!! , DO NOT WEAR WHITE UNDERWEAR.
Actually,
you should never wear white underwear.
Ever.




* Number 4: When wearing white, be sure to wear tan/pink/flesh-colored underwear. White only enhances the underwear borders. Flesh-colored blends in with the skin, so you can't tell where flesh ends and underwear begins.

Remember, these are called "Unmentionables". They should also be "Unseeables".

You are welcome.

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

Once upon a time, yesterday was the warmest day of the year.

And after a weekend of SERIOUS couch-potatoage, I finally got the bee in my bonnet to take my roadbike Ruthie out for the season's maiden voyage.
It was a lovely day. Warm but overcast. Birds chirping. Green leaves and blossoms a-plenty.
So I dug around in my storage unit and closets trying to find my bike pump.
No dice.
Who knows where it is. Which is sad. Because it was totally cute and lime green. Not easily misplaceable.
I call Contender Bicycles to see if they were still open. The man answers, "Contender Bic...", and I interrupt him.
"Are you guys still open???"
A pause. "We close at seven."
"What time is it right now?"
A pause. "Seven".
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooo.
So, I get in my car and drive down to Smith's Fred Meyer. They're open. They've got to have a cheap pump to get me through today.
What's more pathetic than DRIVING to a store to buy a tire pump to go for a bicycle ride?
Oh yeah, the rest of this story...
So I'm ho-humming my options at Smith's Fred Meyer. Not looking too promising. Not only do 99% of them only have the standard Schrader nozzle, but they're all pretty much plastic.
I find a pump that has an attachment to convert the Schrader nozzle into my Presta. I see that it has a "Three Year Warranty", so in haste, I purchase.
Returning home, I'm giddy. I'm humming/whistling the melody to Herman's Hermits "I'm in to Something Good". I get the pump all ready to fill'er up and start pumping the back tire.

SNAP.

Within about 4 pumps, this heavy duty, 3-year warrantied's Presta attachment breaks.
In half.
Awesome.



Ug.
So I forcefully hold the nozzle on the valve and continue to pump until the tire is at a somewhat-tolerably-full,-enough-to-get-me-through-a-few-miles level.
Ok, now the front tire.
Jimmy-rig it so it's barely clamped onto the valve with this "heavy-duty" but broken nozzle.

Pump.
Pump.

PPSSSSSSSTTTTT!




?
I'm sorry, WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!?!
Oh cool. I broke the tip off my tire valve. This is awesome.
I slowly slide my back down the wall until my butt hits the floor. I rest my elbows on my knees and give the pump the Stink-Eye.
I mull over my options.
Door number 1, raise the white flag. It was a valiant effort, but wasn't in the cards to ride tonight. Just accept your losses, and get into your jammies. Law & Order is on.
Door number 2, pull yourself together, Woman! This is a BIKE PUMP for crying out loud. Get out an extra inner-tube and get this ordeal under control.
...
Another glare to the pump.
Alright, Pump. I don't like you. You are immediately going back to Smith's Fred Meyer where you came from. Well, you were just sold at Smith's Fred Meyer. I am actually willing to bet that you came from Hell. But if you get me through this, I'll wait till TOMORROW to take you back there. Deal?
Huff-n-puff.
Get the new tube in. Now. Caress the pump nozzle. It is your friend. I didn't lock it on the valve, but just held it in place and pumped and pumped and pumped and pumped until, like the front tire, it was tolerable just to get me through a few miles.

SWEEET! Let's go!
First off, apparently I need to clean up a bit.




Check.
So Ruthie and I are off. I decide to swing by my sister's house and use her nice bike pump just for precaution's sake.
It was a very nice ride. Although my new place's location near the top of Capital Hill isn't very conducive to finishing strong.. :-S But I did it. Felt good. And I'm looking forward to my pump-swap this evening.

Definitely before Seven.


And the collateral damage?

A Citizen for Fashion Faux-Pas Education

Attention citizens:
If you cannot intellectually dress yourself, please consider yourself banished from my scope of vision.
From now on, I'm selectively viewing people's choices in ensembles, and will only see people whose outfits are pleasing to me.
I would like to hold perhaps a webinar on articles of clothing with both form + function.

Most may be familiar with this travesty:



Sandals::
form: strapped sturdy shoes.
function: keep feet cool when the weather is warm.
Socks::
form: stretchy tubes of warmth.
function: keep feet warm when the weather is cool.
A physical oxymoron.

Get it?

...

However, there is another, LESS known, fashion faux pas.
IMHO, HOWEVER LESS KNOWN, IT IS IN NO WAY LESS OFFENSIVE TO MY EYEBALLS.



Entre` de short sleeve vs. fleece vest calamité.

Short sleeve shirt::
form: worn on upper torso with shortened sleeves.
function: promotes airflow to pits when the weather is warm.
Fleece vest::
form: worn on upper torso with no sleeves.
function: keeping the core of the body warm when the weather is cool.

Not.
O.
Kay.

Each item is fine to be worn independently, but the combination of wearing both is offensive and counterproductive.

To those who might be shocked by the lesson learned in this entry, please enroll in my webinar.

Idle Minds

So yesterday I had a sore throat. Since I work at a hospital, they told me to take the day off... Mind you, I wasn't SUPER sick-- I didn't have a fever or anything, but, if your work tells you not to come in, whattareyagunnado?
Hum...
Call Sis.
Wanna go shopping?
Sure.
Finish shopping.
What now?
Wanna go get tattoos?
Sure.
Explanation:
My sis and I have been talking for years of going in and getting tats together. Although over the years, my idea of what I wanted has changed, we knew we wanted them.
My sis has been crazy-mad-running this past year or so. She's done a handful of marathons and half-marathons.
Good for her.
I personally feel that the human body doesn't want to run more than 10 miles in a day. But whatevs.
For those who are unfamiliar with the history of marathons, please read my sister Jill's blog post http://jillatoz.blogspot.com/2009/07/what-is-marathon.html .
According to legend, with his last breath, Phidippides stated "Νενικήκαμεν", or "We are Victorious".
So,
this is what Nancy got:

Like a Glove

I knew from a very young age that I was different.
I remember watching movies, such as Ace Ventura, where the phrase was stated, "Like a Glove!"
Me: Discombobulated.
Rest of world: Resolute.
Cue retrospection.

I would look at my hands, and have visions of wintertimes and me trying to fit my boundless digits into confining mitts. It was like trying to stuff one of those big puffy sleeping bags into the tiny carrying bag it came with. You NEVER could get it back in there like the day you bought it.
Reluctantly, I would make do and don the gloves, dealing with the sensation of having webbed hands. After all, I only had to deal with the webbedness for about a week before my fingertips would push themselves out the top of my gloves, creating trendy fingerless gloves. It was like a person trying to deal with a pair of pants too short; Sag them down, and you have webbed-crotch. Pull them up, and your ankles despise you.
Hence, the description of fitting "Like a Glove" confounded me. Why would you ever want anything to fit like gloves fit on me? No thank you.
Fast-forward to last night. After already convertible-izing two pair of gloves this season, I went to the store to buy new ones. I was in a reflecting mood. There were decorations that reminded me of my dearly-missed grandmother. As I made my way to the "Winter Accessories" section, i saw some Isotoners. My mother has them. My grandmother had them. They must be good. But will they fit?
I perused the selection, and noted the incredible texture.. Genuine leather. Hm.. Lined with cashmere... Hmm... There was a notably sexier-than-the-rest pair, which also had lycra in the mixture. It was the only pair i could find like them, so i tried them on.

Snug.
Marvelously snug.
And my fingertips weren't crammed.
Room to breathe?
Stretchy-yet durably warm delights.
Like a glove.

Science Rocks!

So, are you like me, and are a creature of habit?
While sitting at your boring job at your boring desk, do you have a favorite ceiling tile you like to stare at?
At your place of occupation, do you have your favorite stall in the restroom?
I do.
And yes, I get irritated if someone else is occupying it when I walk in the door. I tend to choose my favorite stall very logically, and usually based on location (i.e., you never want your favorite stall to be one close to the door).
But at my current job, I based my decision on geology.
I guarantee that 99% of women that go into this stall don't even see this, because in real-life it is about the size of my pinky fingernail.
And who knew that bathroom stalls these days were even made of actual rock, and not just a combo of particle board and formica?
But anyway, it's my special treasure.

Dam Lesbians

Tonight has finally come. The anticipation is killing me. It's once again time for the Indigo Girls concert to come to Salt Lake.
I freaking LOVE the Indigo Girls. Their voices, their harmonies, their lyrics... It's all good. My sister equally loves the Indigo Girls. One year we saw them in concert up at Deer Valley, and feeling out of place among all the lesbians, we shrugged our shoulders and decided to join 'em, and spent the rest of the concert with one arm over the other's shoulder.
This memory triggers a story not told too often; perhaps not often enough.
Back in 2003 my sis and I went on a road trip to Phoenix and on the way we decided to stop at Hoover Dam. We were walking around and about 10 yards in front of us there was an old man being pushed in his wheelchair by perhaps his son. As they got nearer the old man yelled "STOP!" to his son. I swear his wheels SCREECHed to a hault. The old man pointed with his decrepit crooked finger at my sis and me and says, very matter-of-factly, as if this was an educational lesson not to be missed, "NOW THOSE ARE LESBIANS!"
My eyes grew wide. I looked at my sis and she looked at me, and we just smiled and walked past them with our arms around each other.

Get your MEK on

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls. Hold on to your hipsters.
Well over a year ago, I decided to try a brand new type of jean. They were superbly long, a dreamy combo of stiffness and stretchnessitude... They were my first MEKs.
Yes I splurged. You can't find decent pants that fit me on the clearance rack at Sears Roebuck.
I wore these jeans faithfully. They filled me up without letting me down.
I even have a girlfriend so fond of them that she wears them when she comes to town, or when I bring them when I go to visit her.
I (and my friend) wore these jeans so often that a hole started to wear in the butt pocket. It broke my heart. Domestically, I patched it.
Two weeks ago, two new holes wore through. I was crushed. My favorite pair of jeans lay lifeless, draped over my radiator until I could decide what to do with them. maybe I should cut them up and make a woobie out of them?
Then I decided that I spent way too much on these jeans to just let them "fade-out" (pardon the pun) of my life. So, I headed to the store with them in tow to see what they could do for me.
While en route, I was receiting my story to tell the sales clerk when I arrived. I wasn't making anything up; I just needed to get all my facts correct and in chronological order.
I walked in to the store to find a wonderfully cheerful salesclerk eager to meet my needs. I took a deep breath. *Ahem*. "Well, you see... I bought these pants a while ago..."
The girl didn't care. "Oh, ok!" says the girl. "Go pick out a new pair and we'll exchange them".
"Really?", I question. "So I haven't washed them since wearing them last. Should I take them home and wash them before I bring them in to exchange?"
"No, don't worry about it. Just give them to me and go over and pick yourself out a new pair".
"Well, so it has been probably at least a year since I bought these. Is this going to be ok?"
The salesclerk realized I felt uncomfortable and a little apprehensive about the whole situation. So she walks me over to the jeans section, and proverbially holds my hand while I pick out a new pair.
And boy did she pick a pair.
At the end of this experience, I was told that if I ever wanted to exchange these jeans for any reason-- maybe I get more holes in them; maybe I just get a little thicker in the midsection and they no longer fit-- just bring them in and exchange them.
You can't even get that great of a guarantee on Carharts!!
I am so impressed. Bravo, MEK. You have a customer for life.

Honk Honk!

This morning I was kind of in a groggy mood getting to work. I don't seem to be getting enough rest that my body is requesting, and all these meds I'm taking for my sinus and ear infections makes it even harder to get up in the morning.
So I got in my car to get to work today, and was grumbling about not wanting to go to work.
I got in the left turn lane to head up toward the U, and something was coming up the road to prohibit me from making my turn.
What was it?
(*squint* *squint*)
I sure needed my glasses, but had left them on my kitchen table.
Whatever it was, it was definitely running the red light.
If it was pedestrians, they needed to get out of the middle of the road and use the crosswalk!

Oh.
hee hee.
It made my day a lot better. :-)
Has anyone seen geese this big before in their life?????

Kids Say Darnedest Things, Take 2

On Sunday night, my family and I were digging through our Mount Everest of family pictures boxes. It's fun to do that every now and then. Just look at the pictures and hear everyone's memories from them.
At anyrate, I pulled one picture out, similar to this one, and said that it was one of my favorite pictures of me and my dad. I have many memories of my dad balancing me on his knee.
My nephew Truman exclaimed: I WANNA SEE!!!

So I showed him the picture, and pointed that this was Meme, and that this was PopPop.

"THAT'S PopPop?!" he exclaimed;
"He looks so... New!"

Ode to Mother's

In an earlier post, I made a comment about the upcoming holiday season, and the joy I had of anticipating eating Gingerbread Men.
Well Thanksgiving came and went, and I could not find my Gingers ANYWHERE. I went to probably 12 different store chains trying to find them.
No deal.
So I resorted to trying to order them online. Come to find out, when you google for Mother's Gingerbread Men Cookies, you can find several different news articles about Mother's Cookies, inc. being one of the many businesses to be killed by this woeful economy.
Sigh.
Mother's Cookies was established in 1914. Since that time, I can only imagine the millions of women who, like myself, would derive pleasure from decapitating Ginger Men.
But alas, today's economy has no respect for Centurian companies, or compassion for women who like to release their disdain of Men on baked male-shaped-goods.
So Mother's, with heartfelt appreciation, I bid you adieu.

Holiday... Inn?

Well I just got back from what seemed to be an eternity of traveling. The first week I was in Colorado, and the second week I was in Alabama. After the past two weeks' worth of experiences flying and at airports, I'm pretty much content to never fly again.
Well, I know that's not going to happen. So I just know for at least the next few months, I won't be getting on a plane.
Instead of dwelling on the negatives of 2 airports closing while I was at them, and of 4 or 5 delayed flights, etc., I'm choosing to concentrate on a particular story that makes me all toasty inside... :-)
I was supposed to come home on Tuesday night. Well, due to the Chicago airport closing, I was rerouted to Las Vegas (because there were NO more flights to Salt Lake... even on any other airlines.. crazy). This certain flight was landing in Nashville, where I'd have another layover before Las Vegas. At anyrate, I was flying Southwest were you can pick wherever you want to sit (well, 'wherever you want' meaning almost anywhere, because the front row and the exit rows are always taken...). I chose a seat and was getting settled when a man sitting in front of me was asking the flight attendant some questions about the Las Vegas connection flight. I interjected "OH, are you going to Las Vegas, too??". The man said "oh no, but this lady next to me is, and she's deaf and seems really confused"...
I exclaim: SHE'S DEAF?!?!?!? Omg! I know Sign Langauge!
What are the chances that of all the seats on that plane, I chose to sit right behind this woman who was completely lost.
A complete "WOAH" moment.
Come to find out after chatting with her that she was 32, and had never left Birmingham, AL in her life. This was her first plane ride. How scary!! I get scared flying on planes, even though I have flown HUNDREDS of times, and... I can HEAR!
This lady's name was Michelle, and on the connection flight in Nashville we sat by each other and had a GREAT time. Almost couldn't tell that it was a 5 hour flight!
During the flight, she orderd THREE Jack and Cokes. She would look at me and say she was worried that she looked like an alcoholic. I said No, that she just looked like a nervous flyer. :-)
I asked where she was staying in Las Vegas, and she told me the Venetian. Well, kind of. She couldn't remember the name, but something about Venice and that they had Gondolas... Here comes the other "WOAH" moment. Out of all the tens of thousands of hotels and motels in Las Vegas, there is one that I have a friend that works at as a security guard. Which hotel would that be? Oh, that's right. The Venetian. The only hotel that I had a hook-up that I could call to help out this tired, nervous, and very DRUNK deaf woman. What are the chances??
When I think about the delays and cancellations over the past couple days I start to get a little worked up, but then I think about this lady Michelle, and I don't mean to sound preachy here or anything, but I KNOW I was supposed to meet her and help her, and all the drama with the airlines didn't matter, and that drama is actually what made me meet her.
Merry Freakin Christmas, eh??!

The name's Bond... Meg Bond...

So I was naughty today.
I took an extraordinarily long lunch, and went down to the Gateway and slipped into a matinee showing of Quantum of Solace.
Hola!!
Can I just say that Daniel Craig can just come visit me anytime in that sexy Astin Martin???
I am having an internal struggle right now as to which Bond I'd rather marry... I've been watching the older and newer ones, and I've narrowed it down to either Daniel Craig or Timothy Dalton. HELLO!! I do feel gypped that Timothy only made 2. I hope Daniel doesn't suffer the same fate.
So to celebrate, I'm putting up a new survey, to vote which Bond you like the most...
Bon Apetit!

Yes, I love technology

Of all the inventions over the last... millennium... I cannot even fathom my life without the discovery of the internet.
Some people fear that all that info at your fingertips may be iatrogenic for society (absolute power corrupts?), due to "racy pictures", or what have you. (FYI- I learned the word "Iatrogenic" in a psychology class many years ago. It basically means in a medical field that the treatment did more harm than good, and that the status quo would have been better off without it)...
But I don't care.
Over the last week, my life has been infinitely improved by the world-wide web.
Recently I've been on this vintage kick. I've made a new vintage-inspired dress, I've been listening to the best of Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, and Elle Fitzgerald. And last Sunday I got the idea to try out some vintage hairstyles. So, I saddled up to my friendly little laptop, typed in some words, and VOILA!... Hundreds of how-to hairstyle videos. SO FUN!
Then, I decide that for the first time in my life, I want to try wearing "REAL" make-up... not just the liner and mascara I buy at the check-out stand at the grocery store. So I get foundation and bronzer, and some eye shadow... and one of those crazy eyelash curler things... Anyway, saddle up again and type a few more words, and PRESTO! I'm almost a pro...
But the most recent web-investigation I will be eternally grateful for. For my brother's wedding last year, I bought the most splendid blouse from Arden B to wear. Yes, I splurged on it. But it was worth it. It looked AMAZING! Well, a few months ago, I wore it an got honestly WHO KNOWS WHAT on it. Something maybe chocolate or blood... No Clue. So I take it to a dry cleaner (it's rayon) and they cannot save my shirt. I actually almost shed a tear thinking about having to be rid of my shirt. But before I could say Adeu, I had to give it one last shot. So I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and saddled up one more time. I swear I didn't do as much research on any of my college papers as I did trying to figure out how to get this stain out of a rayon blouse. I tried a concoction of things that still didn't work. And then I stumbled upon one site that said that it might be a "dye stain", and that I'd have to treat it with bleach. I was so nervous. It said to try a little bleach on an inside seam and see if it altered the color. If it didn't, the garment was color-fast (or whatever. I can't remember anymore), and that it was safe to use on the stain. Well HALLE-FREAKIN'-LUJA, I was able to rub some bleach on the stain and after a few minutes of setting, the stain was gone!! I literally danced around my apartment for a good 10 minutes celebrating the resurrection of a most prized blouse.
Thank you, thank you, Technology.

A perpl-EGGS-ing Conundrum

Saturday morning I woke up feeling a little more vibrant than having just my normal couple bowls of cereal for breakfast.

I decided I was going to scramble some eggs.

(Now I am begging for anyone to add any insight whatsoever to the following situation...)

I grab the egg carton out of my midget-size fridge. Open it up and crack the first egg. Looks delicious. Can't wait to cook it.

Grab the second egg and crack it. I crack it. Crack Crack CRACK it. Um. It won't crack. ? I had to peel the shell off. The egg was entirely frozen.

Has anyone in their entire life seen a frozen egg?

So not only did the perplexity of the frozen egg confound me, but then I thought: What's wrong with that one? Why did only that ONE freeze, and not the egg EXACTLY next to it freeze too?

It's not like they were in different fridges or even different cartons.

Is my wussy little half-pint fridge SO non-conducive that it can't even keep eggs decently?

Here's an arial view for your viewing pleasure:

And yes, I did eat it. I didn't care. I'm poor. I figured (hoped) that just the trans-morphing of the egg's property of matter wouldn't compromise the nutritive integrity of it...

Kwik Sew?

Since moving out on my own, I've found my brain deteriorating with lack of conversations and stimulations. Given, it's exactly 2 months till I start grad school and will definitely be OVERstimulated...

At any rate, I decided to fill my time with more productive things than watching every episode available of Family Guy and Cash Cab.

So I decided I'm going to make a new dress.

Supposedly it should be fairly easy. I chose a dress that has no zippers or things like that. It just has one button-up keyhole in the back. I've cut out the pattern and will start sewing tomorrow... Definitely let ya know how progress goes...
Here's what it should look like:^

More memories of Grandma

Ok this is mainly for family. But I wanted to set up a list that you could add comments to of your own memories of grandma.

I'll start:

• "Reddy Kilowatt" lightning bolt men
• Popsicle lights
• Robin eggs in the living room
• Smarties in grandma's underwear drawer
• Sparkly ceilings
• SCARY stuffed animals in the downstairs bedroom
• Petrified Wood
• Butterfly fridge magnets

List some more!

LESSONS LEARNED FROM GRANDMA

Upon publishing my post yesterday, it sparked a memory that my sister, Nancy, had written one of the best memoirs of my grandma. She wrote it in one sitting like it was nothing, but it makes me cry everytime I read it. I asked her if it'd be ok if I could post it here. I modified some statements to past-tense, as she is no longer with us.

• Lessons Learned from Grandma


• by Nancy Breinholt
  
  If you don’t like something, change it. If your name is Alice LaDean, go by LaDean, but add an e on the end, to make it more feminine. LaDeane.
  
  I learned the sanctity and power of prayer from my Grandma. Every time she was asked to say grace, she would say it in a very soft voice, and cry about 80% of the time. It isn’t something to be mumbled and raced through.
  
  When you are threading a worm on the hook, use a towel to hold the worm still, that way it won’t wiggle free. And, always have a pair of pliers on the boat, so you can knock a Chub on the head with them.
  
  There are amazing things to be read in books. Always have books by your chairs, by your bed, and in the bathroom. Don’t let a day go by without cracking open a book.
  
  I learned to love the outdoors. My grandma was an outdoorsman, when women were not outdoorsman. She had her own hunting rifle and her own fishing pole, and didn’t need a man to fix either of them.
  
  She taught me about magical things, like galindies, and vitamin E.
  
  Don’t fight with your brother about mowing the lawn, someone will lose a finger. However, if you do happen to lose a finger, don’t forget to ask your manicurist for 10% off when she does your nails.
  
  When the grandchildren are over, a great treat is jello powder.
  
  I learned from Grandma that if the fish weren’t biting, I wasn’t holding my mouth right. If I still couldn’t hold my mouth right, she would put some “magic” on the line. And be damned if it didn’t work.
  
  You put meat tenderizer on mosquito bites, aspirin on bee stings, a paper towel in your bag of lettuce, dishwashing liquid on your vegetables, vitamin C for colds, and vitamin E for scars.
  
  She taught me how to play cards, and almost more importantly, to take no prisoners when we are playing card games! If someone offers to deal you in, take it, and then take them to the cleaners.
  
  You have to be on the lake before sunrise if you want to catch any fish.
  
  My Grandma has inspired in me a love of my home state. She had been everywhere in Utah, and had seen more things than most. I always asked her about places in Utah, and she had always been there, but about 50 years ago, before it was “cool” to go to these places, and also before it had become “illegal” to go to them now.
  
  If you save up enough plastic grocery bags, you can make a purse out of them.
  
  I also learned that if I am going to get a trophy to place my “Hole in One” balls, I need to make sure there are more than 3 places to put all my balls.
  
  You put a Canadian nickel on the back of your putter to put down to mark your place on the green.
  
  Most of all, I learned what it meant to be a true companion to your spouse. Not a hand-maiden, not a servant, not a doormat. Every adventure grandpa had, grandma was there every step of the way. But when something was important to her, but grandpa refused to go, she was not afraid to go alone. She cared for grandpa greatly and without complaint, but could be a firecracker when it was necessary. Love filled every action grandma took, and when Truman asks what she was like, these are a few things I hope to pass on.

A Lesson on Femininity

Memorial Day is normally not an uplifting holiday for me. It makes me sad to think of the people I've know that have died. Makes me VERY sad.
But I realized that I have to snap out of a depress-mode like that. You can't just pop a Zoloft everytime you think about a person, ya know?
So I decided that every time I get sad about losing a loved-one, I have got to stop and think of the great memories these people have left me with.
I'm speaking most specifically of my Grandma Henrichsen, Miss Alice LaDeane.
Last night I went out to my parents house to raid their fridge for the free dang-good left-over food from Memorial Day's Festivities. After dinner, my mom wanted to go to Penny's to look at their "70% off" sale for custom blinds (she's redoing her kitchen... again). So we packed our purses with money and a Spanish/English dictionary (kidding) and headed off to Valley Fair Mall. Once there, we asked a sales lady about the blinds. She said she'd have to get their "expert" to answer our questions. When the Expert came out and sat at the computer, I noticed that her name tag, very surprisingly, sported the name "La Dean".
My grandma is the only other person in the world I know whose name was La Dean. So I told that to this sales lady. Of course saying my grandma's name no longer brings sadness, but automatically brings the fondness of hilarious memories.
So I noted:
Although my grandma's first name was Alice, she went by La Dean. But she didn't just go by La Dean. Although that's how it's spelled on her birth certificate and any other official document, unofficially she added an "e" at the end of her name, for "La Deane", because, she claimed, it made it more feminine.