The Nuthouse

This is a gross bar that's a couple blocks from my house.


I took the picture walking home the other night. I still can't figure out what the arrow is pointing to and why it's pointing at it.

I'm clairvoyant!...Or really important.

Yesterday, I post a crack about Mary-Kate's sense (or lack there of) of style.

And what's on MSN today?

That's right. I'm one step ahead of the game, playas. Someone should hire me to do this.

Another story from the edge...

I just got done doing an order for a customer. She had no idea what she wanted, had no numbers and basically was a pain in my neck (seriously, whenever I'm at work, I get a sharp pain down the right side of my neck--as soon as I leave, I don't have it anymore).

Anyway, at the end of the order she drawls, "I need me some get well cards, too."

I politely tell her that we stock a lot of different cards, and would she happen to have an item number for a specific card?

"No. Just pick something out."

OkAAAy. I'm searching my stock and all of the sudden she says, "Wait. The Holy Spirit told me not to get them. Nevermind those."

Righto.

Did the Holy Spirit tell her not to get them because the $2.50 wholesale cost would have sent her busines into a financial tailspin? Or maybe the Holy Spirit thinks that get well cards are a sign of weak faith. Or did the Holy Spirit simply not trust me to pick out her cards?

That's probably it. One-third of the Blessed Trinity doesn't trust me. I'll have to wait until she calls back to see if she knows how the other two feel about me.

It's all starting to make sense...

For some odd reason, I found myself reading an article today that was titled, In Depth: Drugs' Strangest Side Effects.

There was a lot of talk of loose stools and compulsive gambling (seriously) so, comparably, Vasotec is kind of uninteresting.

Purpose: Part of a class of drugs known as ACE inhibitors, Vasotec is used to treat high blood pressure as well as symptomatic congestive heart failure.
Side Effect: Among other things, Vasotec may cause users to lose their sense of taste.

They lose their sense of taste?

Huh. I had no idea Mary-Kate had high blood pressure.

Honestly?

I just answered my phone. There was a ridiculous woman on the other end.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, sweetheart."

Did you just call me 'sweetheart?' That happens a lot. I must sound like an 11-year-old child prodigy. Anyway, that's not what annoyed me, really. This is what annoyed me:

"No problem. My name is Carly."
"CURLY?!"

She was seriously over the top. Aggressive, even.

"CAAAAAAArly. C-A-R-L-Y."
"Oh."

Why would you even think that someone's name was Curly? I'm not a stooge. Or a cowboy. Which, are the only two acceptable reasons to ever have such a name...and even then, I'm not entirely convinced that a cowboy should be named Curly. But Steinbeck can do very little wrong in my opinion, so I'll have to be okay with it.

What was I talking about? Oh, right.

Not everyone's a douche...

Last night B and I went to Chipotle. Because, holy crap, I love Chipotle.

Anyway, while we were out in Robinson, B says she wants to go to Wal-Mart to pick up new wiper blades. We did. But she parked in the back at the automotive department instead of going in the normal entrance...so I teased her. We go in, and there's this...rack...with all these wiper blades, and we're trying to flip through this book and find what she needs.

(from behind the counter)
"You girls know what you're looking for?"

(I giggle and B says)
"We're pretending we do."

I suddenly get really interested in the different types of keychains, etc., at the counter while the guy asks what the make and model is. He recommends the 21/19 combo and then informs us that we were searching the "extras" rack. The acutal aisle with all the wiper blades is "that way" (followed by, what I like to refer to as, the playa head nod).

We find them. B pays for them and as we're about to leave, he says,
"You just parked right outside?"
Mmhm. Yep. (I'm suddenly glad it's still daylight)

That's when Tom told us he'd take care of it. Tom. Our hero. The excellent Wally-World Worker of the Week who changed our wiper blades. We salute you, sir.

I was sneaky and snapped this photo of him. Say hi to Tom.

Oh please.

You want help?

I just was reading this article on MSN. Honestly, people. I wish this was my problem. Let me tell you something--the idea that my job would ever be in jeopardy because of automated services is a cruel joke.

The people I deal with 8.5 hours a day, Monday through Friday guarantee me job security. You want an example? Gladly. I just got off the phone with a woman who had me pull up a particular author in my database. She then insisted I read off all 15 titles, along with the ISBNs, so she could place an order later. I asked her if she has our catalog. She does. I asked her if she's ever been to our website (where, incidentally, all of our product is listed, along with images, blurbs, and up-to-date stock numbers). She has. But she's "busy."

My friend Rachel put it best when one day, while we were commiserating in the lunch room, she said, "I don't know if it's because of our generation, but if I can do something and not have to talk to a single living person--I'm happy." I agree. Which is why I can't understand these people I deal with. I have to stop myself from being like, "Why didn't you just Google that?"

But then again...I also think you should have to take a competency test and be issued a swipe card that will activate a self check-out register.

Boston Marathon

Today was the Boston Marathon. I have very strong feelings about the Boston Marathon for the following reason--it schooled me. I had little knowledge of what exactly could happen to a person who ran for 26.2 miles...namely, if you're a dude, your nipples can bleed from the chafing.

So, when my dad ran his first marathon (at age 54--he rules), I kept teasing him to be careful about chafing. I told him I couldn't bear the sight of him with bleeding nipples. He seemed a little skeptical, but said he'd look into it.

The day of the Pittsburgh Marathon, Jess and I were down there watching for my dad (and I'll say this, if you haven't ever watched a marathon, you should--it's an amazing example of the good left in mankind) and some dude (who was not my d-pops) runs by with a white, sweaty, t-shirt that had two bright red streaks down the front. Gah. Really, I'm not sure there's much else that can top that on my list of "Things I'd Rather Not Experience...Ever."

Anyway. We spotted my dad right before he crossed the finish line and I went over, told him I was so proud of him and (with the vivid image of the guy in the bloody t-shirt in my head) asked him how his nipples were...he smiled and lifted his shirt to reveal two, round band-aids, strategically placed.

I'm the best daughter ever.

My newest game...

The goal is to write a poem consisting entirely of overheard conversation. You should try it, I'm a little obsessed. I'm sure I'll have new ones occasionally. Anyway, I didn't take whole conversations--I took bits. And here's what I came up with...I think it's kind of great.

The light was on so long, it went out and
I heard little inklings of your voice.
There’s one I forgot--
but it just looks out of place.

I apologize.

In a sense you’ve already paid for it--
you cleaned out what I had.
And once it’s gone,
I don’t really need to be there, do I?
Funny, that reminds me of years ago.

What was it? Was it music?
Why wasn't I told?

I’m still searching--
it’s nothing personal.
And I don’t know how long this is going to take—
I really don’t.
But I wanted you to know--
I just happen to get him.

Uh...er...

So, in order for a dream to be classified as "recurring" does it have to be the same exact dream? Or can it be the same underlying theme...plot...whatever you want to call it?

I keep having this dream...ok, it's happened about 3 times within the past few months-so it's not all of the time, but it's so outrageously disturbing that I'm freaked out it happened at all, let alone more than once.

I'm dreaming about dead cats. Like...just...lots of dead cats.

In each dream, I'm in a house that I'm unfamiliar with and suddenly--there are dead cats everywhere. In the first one, there were live ones, too. Who talked. Gah--it's so creepy. And maybe I should be a little more clear about something--PILES of dead cats. Dead cats in air vents. On the porch. Lying in stairways. In between the screen and front door.

So, today, I decided I wanted to check into it. But I'm not really all that on board with some new-age hippies reeking of patchouli telling me what's buried in my sick, twisted subconscious and that if I'm dreaming of dead cats, I probably need my aura cleansed. But I did it anyway. I figure I can't really verify that they reek like patchouli through a website.

Here's what I found:
Generally, cats are symbolic of feminine power and independence.

A dead animal in a dream almost certainly refers to some part of you - an instinctive force, perhaps - and the dream will be telling you either that this part of you ought to die, because its effects are wholly negative; or that it is a valuable but repressed part of you that you must now bring to life, to rectify an imbalance in your personality.

And this was from a non-hippie book:
Most often, dreams are reflecting physical realities. A person experiencing something (i.e. depression or grief) may have dreams that reflect their state of mind.

Okay. So, my feminine side is repressed? Or my independence? I feel like I'm totally cool with all my female power...maybe it's the other stuff? Feeling stuck and unhappy?

Or I'm just one sick pup. Er...kitten. Meow.

Sooooo fun...

Go HERE. It's like therapy for me.

Buh.

The company I work for has a toll-free number that is only one number off from a major insurance company's toll-free number. Needless to say, we get a fair share of "Hi, I need to change my policy" phone calls.

I got one today.

"Hello, I'd like to make a change to my policy. The policy number is..."

"Sir? I'm sorry. Were you trying to reach Insuranceworld?"

"Yes..." (He was hesitant and apparently confused.)

(I gave a little polite laugh) "Yeah, this happens more than you'd think--you have the wrong number."

"But...this isn't Insuranceworld?" (more confusion.)

"No, this isn't. See, our phone numbers are very similar. Here, the number is (800) 888-8868. Insuranceworld is (800) 888-8869."

"Yeah. 8869...that's what I dialed."

"With all due respect, sir--obviously, you didn't. Because this isn't Insuranceworld. Have a nice day." (click.)

Can I just take a moment here and sit with my mouth gaping open in a blank, dumb, disbelieving stare?

"That's what I dialed?!" Are you kidding me?!

This is what makes my head spin--he thought I was lying? That I secretly work for Insuranceworld but didn't want to help him with his policy so I made up a fake company with a fake phone number? That is way more plausible to him than the possibility that he hit the wrong button while dialing.

Today is going to be one of those days I end up crying in a bathroom stall...

This was in my backyard.

"Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems."

Rainer Maria Rilke

9:23 this morning...

"Good morning, thank you for calling Giant Jimmy's Big Bible Superemporium. This is Carly-how can I help you?"

"Uh. Hi. What's your name again? Chloe?"

"Carly."

"C-a-r-l-a?"

"No, C-a-r-l-Y. Car-LEE."

"Ok, C-a-r-l-e-y?"

"Just a 'y', sir."

"OH! Okay. Thank you, Carla. I'd like to ask a question..."


I really wish I was kidding. Really.

Speaking of fire...

We went to Christian's house for a fire on Saturday night. It was Jess, Chris, Christian, Dan, Stacy and I--oh, and Max...who really, really loves my feet. We also found out he really, really loves The Jackson 5. And marshmallows.

After Max was in bed, we headed out back and just had an awesome time, sitting around, talking and eating s'mores.

Oh, and at one point the guys ran out to the store and Jess and I were left with the fire. It was totally dying. Much to everyone's surprise, little-miss-never-camped-a-day-in-her-life delivered. I kicked ass and took names, people. Look at how fantastic it was after I got done with it:

Aaaaand...the boys cooked hot dogs.

"And the sky turns to fire..."

I was driving to Christian's house on Saturday and the sky was a-mazing.

I had my camera with me, so I took some pictures.

Up on the roof...

I promised Jess I'd share this story.

This is my dear friend (and Jess' husbeau) Chris:

Chris and I didn't know each other until he and my bff started dating. The first night she pointed him out to me, I thought he seemed arrogant...but then, I'm generally okay with that. His first interaction with me involved a conversation about pencils that we won't get into right now. Let's just say, I made an impression.

So, yeah--I love Chris a lot. I've even been made "Wife #2" (mostly because Jess doesn't like the mall half as much as we do). But here's the thing--Chris loves to throw food. No gathering is ever safe. Carrots. Reese's Pieces. Dinner rolls. Each time I've moved, I've found Reese's cups behind the couch...peanut M&Ms under the entertainment center. And it can be a point of major contention because I'm always torn. On one hand, I'm going to have to clean it all up. But on the other--handfuls of halloween candy thrown up into a ceiling fan in a crowded room is priceless. The duck and run? Please. I don't care who you are, that's funny.

The other night, my friends threw me a little birthday shindig. There were lots of treats...and of course, the inevitable happened. I look up at one point and Chris, Ron and Dave are standing by the table and Chris has this look on his face. Dave reaches out to move the curtain back from the window (it was open) and Chris yells, "Nonono! I want it to go through the curtain!" And the next thing I know, he's pitching chocolate chip cookies out the window (and incidentally, onto the roof).

Let me explain briefly about B's apartment--it's above a coffee shop. And so, all you have to do is step out of the windows in her living room and you're on the roof of the shop. It's fabulous.

Alright. So, fast forward a few hours. Everyone has left and B and I are sitting around, talking and (me, being sad my birthday was over) picking at leftover cookies. We happened to be sitting near the window and right in the middle of a very serious discussion I see-out of the corner of my eye-something move out on the roof. At this point, I've tuned out whatever B was saying. I look over and right under the windowsill is a big fat raccoon, mid-creep, looking up at me. A lot like this:

Yeah, yeah, like that, but he was way fatter. And a lot more evil-looking.
Evil like this guy:

Yeah. That's more like it. Ok, so I promise you, in a mere 3 seconds, I imagined this fat bastard glowing-eyed, rabid raccoon hopping up into the apartment and attacking my face. So I did what any great friend would do...I ran out of the room, screaming for B to "CLOSE THE WINDOW!" If Ricky The Fat Bastard Raccoon was going to maim one of us, it had to be her. B's really sweet, kind, fun and compassionate. She has a lot more going for her. Me? My face is all I have, people.

B slammed the window shut and we waited. After several minutes of us really enjoying the mental picture of me running madly around the apartment trying to wrestle a fat raccoon off my face--we opened the window back up and leaned out to take a look. What did we find? I'll tell you. We found Ricky's paw prints leading over to a damn cookie that was right outside the window.

The fat bastard tracked a cookie up onto the roof.

And I almost got rabies and lost my face.

I hope Chris is happy.

Damn you, Jessica Simpson.

Yeah. So, it's not bad enough she has some cute shoes. NOW, I stumble across this wonderful hobo bag...

That's my perfect bag, people!!! And I can't get it.

Aaaaand, I'd do what Jess suggested, but she went and ruined the thing by doing this:

*shrug*

Talk to me, people.

What does the color dark green make you think of?

What was the last bad movie you watched?

If you could star in a commercial for one of your favorite products, which one would you want to advertise?

If you were to make your living as a photographer, what subject would your pictures revolve around?

Using the letters in the word SPRING, write a sentence.
______________________________________________


I'm going to answer in picture form. Because I like to keep things interesting.

1.

2.



3.


4.


5.

Fiesta!

I didn't get around to posting this over the weekend, but on Friday, my parents took me on a little day trip to West Virginia. It's a creepy town but it's the home of Fiesta Dinnerware.

It's kind of weird, but...I love my dishes. My parents bought me service for eight for my 30th birthday. So, since then, we take these trips down to the outlet/factory and find fun additions. Mostly, it's my mum and I, but we like to bring my dad along cause he carries stuff. And pays for it.

Anyway! Friday we went down for my birthday and I added these little bowls:


these awesome glasses:


and this serving bowl (that I currently have fruit in):


And because I had the camera out-here are my pretty dishes in all their glory:

True story.

I found this book in my mailbox at work today. It's signed to me-by the author.

I thought, "Awesome! I love SATC!" Then I start leafing through it and find the following:

"An honest, engaging and hopeful response to the dating dilemma..."
"Trading sex for love is a common theme in today's unstable dating world..."
"Too many women are searching for love and truth in all the wrong ways..."
"Sex doesn't make you special. It just makes you available..."

...and I start to wig out a little. There was no note. No follow-up email from a co-worker saying that they put it in my box. So, I immediately thought what anyone would think. Namely, "Oh my god, someone here thinks I need this book. They were at a trade show, whatever, saw it, and thought of the most single, most hopeless, most promiscuous girl at work to get it for and--oh my god--it.was.me."

It made perfect sense. That's why they didn't tell me who it was who gave it to me. They were obviously singling me out. No pun intended.

I asked everyone if it was them. And I was so diplomatic and kind about it. Sweet voice, bright smile--"Hey! Was it you who put that great book in my mailbox?!" No luck. And I was really starting to feel pretty shitty about the whole thing until my brother called me, giggling. He's 27 (today) and honest to god, he was giggling, when he said, "Yeaaah. Everyone thought I'd be to busy thinking about my birthday to pull off a great April Fools, huh!?"

Punk'd.

I love these boys.

This was taken at my birthday party last night. If you can't see clearly--they've got baseball on.
This is before they went and got the strawberry shortcake and started eating it from the serving spoon, right out of the trifle bowl...while watching the game.

It was a great night. I have some fabulous friends.