Fun

Sep 5, 2008

I.D. Required

After hearing sniffles and sneezes and snoring and coughs, after seeing watery eyes and dismal expressions, after a few nights of Chad and L. not sleeping well last week… I knew I needed to head to the store to re-stock our medicine cabinet. But attempting to purchase the required medication, when your house is being plagued by a miserable late-summer cold, turned out to be much more complicated than it should have been.

First, I made a trip to CVS Pharmacy, because I had a $3 off coupon, which is enough for about half a container of Nyquil. And we like the Nyquil around here, even though they released a new-ish and unimproved version (where they took out the good stuff — pseudoephedrine).

[For die-hards like me, however, there's Nyquil D (where they put the good stuff back in), and Nyquil Cough, which is infused with some other helpful medication.]

Mostly, we like Nyquil because it has always tasted great.

Okay, that’s a lie. It tastes nasty.

But there’s just enough alcohol in it to knock you out, so you can sleep well, even if you can’t breathe.

At the CVS counter, I was informed that they needed to see my driver’s license. And I had to sign a statement saying that if I’m buying Nyquil in order to formulate, create and/or sell illegal narcotics, I will be arrested and do I understand what I’m getting into by buying Nyquil? Or something like that.

I signed.

Unfortunately, the cashier kid hit “total” before scanning my $3-off coupon. He looked at me hopefully, as if wishing that I would say, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just use the coupon another time.” But that wasn’t going to happen. I needed to save the money now. So we had to start all over again.

And once again, I had to hand over my license and sign away all rights to making narcotics in my basement.

Next stop, grocery store. I had to pick up a few pantry items.

But I also decided to purchase more cold medicine, because what if I caught this nasty cold? So far, just Chad and L. were sick. But if I got sick, we’d have a problem.

Because, you see, I don’t drink the Red Nyquil (which I had picked up for Chad); I’m strictly a Green girl.

This really baffles my husband, because The Green tastes like a black licorice / alcohol / something gross cocktail, and yet I prefer it over the rotten fruit / alcohol / something gross cocktail that we lovingly refer to as “The Red” around here. Chad just doesn’t get that.

Anyway, I figured I might as well get myself a bottle of “The Green,” because even if I didn’t get sick that week, I surely would get sick sometime this year, and that stuff has a shelf-life of at least a year or so. [Note: I did end up getting sick, so it was a good thing I picked up some Green.]

Needless to say, the cashier again needed to verify that I am over 18, so that if I was purchasing cold medicine for nefarious purposes, at least I supposedly knew what I was getting into and would accept all jail time or other consequences when I got caught.

So I’m thinking, if there’s someone in the government watching my medicinal purchases, they must surely think I’m up to something. Two transactions in CVS and one in the grocery store 20 minutes later. The fact that I’m spreading out my purchases over various retail establishments is certainly suspicious.

Hopefully, they’ll have access to my receipts and notice that I also purchased multiple boxes of tissues (see! someone really is sick!), and also grapes and cucumbers. Surely someone buying cold medicine in order to do evil things with it would not be worrying about keeping nutritious produce in the fridge.

Filed Under: Family, Fun 15 Comments

Aug 28, 2008

Technology: It makes me look more normal

written by katrina · 12 Comments

I’m going to tell you a secret.

I talk to myself. Regularly.

And I don’t just mean I say “ouch” if I stub my toe. No, I mutter and mumble to myself on a semi-consistent basis. I’ve been known to rehearse conversations that I’m dreading or nervous about while driving. I exclaim over the poopiness of certain poopy diapers. I scornfully tell myself to “watch out for that coffee table” after I stumble into it. And if you were to follow me down the aisle of the grocery store, and if I believed that I was alone in that aisle, you might hear me quietly saying things such as, “I can not believe the price of Grape Nuts” or “Oh come on, where do they keep barley around here?”

I’m personally okay with this ~~wack-o~~ endearing quirk of mine. But I suppose it could lead me into embarrassing situations. I often wonder what people in other cars think when they pull up next to me at the stop light and I’m right in the middle of, “…and furthermore, you need to understand that…” And if someone snuck up beside me at the grocery store, my sudden exclamation over the condition of the tomatoes might cause them to look askance at me.

Or maybe not.

You see, technology is coming to the rescue of ~~crazies~~ self-conversationalists like me. Let me give you an example.

Several months ago, I was meandering through Wal-Mart. I paused to compare the prices of two competing products and noticed that the lady next to me seemed to be doing the same. We both stared at the shelves intently, silently…contemplating. Moments ticked by.

Then, out of nowhere, she let out a, “HAHAHAHA!! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! NO WAY! SERIOUSLY?!?!?!?!” And I only put that in Bold Caps and included the obnoxiously excessive punctuation for the purpose of literary integrity. That is exactly how she was talking. ( Apparently she didn’t get the memo about using our inside voices in Wal-Mart.)

Anyway, after I landed back on the ground and realized that I wasn’t having a heart attack and that my heart rate was gradually slowing back down, here were my thoughts, in order of occurrence:

- I know! I can’t believe those prices either!
- Hey this lady talks to herself, too. Except she is really loud about it.
- Does she realize that I’m standing right next to her?

All of those thoughts hit my mind in a split-second, and immediately after they passed through, the lady continued talking. “Oh, girl, seriously, I just can’t believe she’d say something like that. You should have told her what she could do with her opinion…” and then she walked off.

Slowly, the realization hit me:

[Let me just pause here to say that while I consider myself fairly knowledgeable in the area of technology, cell phones and their accessories are one area where I remain woefully ignorant. My cell phone is eight years old and hardly ever sees the light of day. So while other people would have figured all this out right away, it took me a minute or two.]

Anyway, the realization hit me: Despite the fact that she was gripping her shopping cart with both hands, she had to be talking to someone. She must be using some kind of technologically advanced gadget that was connected to her cell phone. She wasn’t talking to herself; she was talking to someone else, someone who was probably in Target at that very moment answering, “I know it, girlfriend.”

Ever so stealthily, I followed Loud Lady, determined to catch a glimpse of her communication device. But despite all my maneuverings, I wasn’t ever actually able to see the contraption. I later did some research and discovered that some things called “no-boom bluetooth headsets” for phones are teeny-tiny and could easily be concealed amidst an ’80s-style haircut. Which the Loud Lady had. So, I’m guessing she had one of those nifty things.

Huh.

And here I was, worried that people would think I was crazy because I talk to myself. Now I know that they probably don’t even think I’m talking to myself at all when they see me jabbering in the most unlikely of places. They must just assume that I am very, very hip and that I have some ultra-cool, ultra-small, ultra-chic headset thingamajiggy. And I’m just going to let them go on thinking that.

* This post was originally published on February 8, 2007.

Filed Under: Fun 12 Comments

Aug 18, 2008

“It smells like something died in here…”

written by katrina · 7 Comments

Note: What follows is a long and boring account of a run-in I had this week with an unpleasant occurrence in our basement. Some parts may be gross. Many parts are long-winded. So if you manage to stick with me, thank you. You are a truly dedicated blog-reader.

So, on Tuesday L. turned 2 months old, and in celebration, I took him to the pediatrician’s, where the mean nurse poked his cute little chunky legs with big nasty needles three different times. There’s not much worse than watching your baby’s eyes widen in shock and pain when he receives his vaccinations. Ugh… All I wanted to do was get home and give him some quiet and comfort.

My wonderful husband had taken C. out for lunch while we were at the doctor’s, before he (my husband) headed out of town for two days. The plan was, when L. and I got home, he’d hit the road.

I walked into the house, lugging the car seat, complete with baby, and noticed… a strange smell. It was not a good smell, but it was very faint, and since I’ve been known to have super olfactory powers, I didn’t think too much of it. I asked Chad and C. if they smelled anything. Nope. So I let it go, figuring I was imagining things. Chad left for his trip, C. skipped off to play and I sat down to hold L., who was not pleased with me for subjecting him to needles.

The day went on… L. developed a fever and became more and more fussy. C. was patient, even though he’s not one who appreciates a screaming baby much. I did my best to keep people happy. And the smell got stronger. I wondered if someone had thrown something in the kitchen trash that should have been transported directly to the garbage cans in the garage. So I opened up the kitchen wastebasket and sniffed. Hmmm… Nope.

I got L. settled for a nap and went on a sniffing tour of the house. Kitchen…fine. Family room…fine. Bathroom…fine. Basement…ah-hah. This was the culprit. Our basement is still unfinished but serves as storage, laundry room, play area, and cat-litter location, so we use it quite often. I had just been down here the day before and there was no smell. Now it was overpowering. And I grew horrified as I realized that it smelled like…something dead.

+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~

Now, it just so happens that I have prior experience with dead things. Unfortunately. Our last house was a lovely little cape cod. That happened to be more than 70 years old. And that happened to need a lot of work. And some of that work involved finding and sealing up animal entrances that we were not able to locate in the seven years we lived there. The local population of squirrels, chipmunks, and mice saw our house as the Wildlife Hotel, a luxurious destination for those chilly winter months. So I would occasionally do battle with the vacationers.

There was the winter that I caught and disposed of 14 mice. (And before you ask, yes, we have a cat. And no, she’s of no use whatsoever as a mouser.) There were the nights C. couldn’t get to sleep because he could hear animals scampering about in the attic. And most annoying of all were the times that some random creature would manage to get trapped in the wall and would spend 2.3 days scratching, scratching, scratching. And then presumably, it would die, although thankfully it never stunk – maybe the plaster was too thick for it to permeate. In the meantime, the cat would stare at the noise-producing wall, slowly going insane.

So all that to say, I’ve dealt with animals. I’ve dealt with dead animals. And I was pretty sure that’s what I was dealing with now.

+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~+++~~~

But here’s the thing. This house is only 4 years old. It’s not drafty, it’s not dilapidated. It’s new, for crying out loud. So I couldn’t imagine how on earth something had crawled into our house and died.

But nevertheless, I began my hunt. Using my aforementioned superior olfactory powers, I narrowed down the source of the smell to one corner of the room. I tentatively peeked behind a futon to find…something. I wasn’t sure what. It was small, the size of a mouse. But darker. And the head was all wrong. Upon closer, also tentative, inspection, I believed that it was a mole. But after conducting some research today, I’ve discovered that it was really a shrew. Ugh. I stared at it for a while, fully expecting it to jump up and cause me to scream and run up the stairs. But no. It was indeed dead. I decided to look around to make sure he was the only culprit, only to find another one in the corner about 6 feet away. Two dead shrews. In my basement. In my new house. With Chad out of town. No fair.

An aside: I’d heard of shrews, I don’t think I’ve ever been called a shrew, my clearest association with the word shrew is Shakespeare’s play, “The Taming of the Shrew.” But I didn’t know much about them. Interestingly, they’re not rodents. But they look rodent-like enough for me to not want them in my house. But anyway, being a nerd, I have appreciated learning something about these little creatures. So all was not wasted.

I immediately did what any self-respecting wife would do: I called my husband (who was still in transit), explained the situation, and hinted that he should promptly turn around and head home to handle our critter emergency. No go. He asked me if I was going to take care of them. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He assured me that if I could live with the situation for the next two days, he’d take care of it when he got home.

So I lived with it. For about 10 minutes. But I could not stand the thought of dead things in my basement. Things that were stinking up the house. Things the cat might decide to play with. Ugh. So I found a box (thank goodness I’ve placed so many orders on Amazon.com – you never know when you’ll need a cardboard box), lined it with a garbage bag, and took it and a shovel to the basement. Shrews are rather small and light, and it’s very difficult to scoop a shovel under them, as you would scoop a spatula under a grilled cheese. I won’t share all the gory details, but after considerable time and effort, the cement block wall and I eventually managed to coax them on to the shovel, after which they were unceremoniously deposited in the box. By this time, I was sweaty, mentally exhausted, and utterly grossed out.

When I took the shrew-laden box upstairs, I found that poor L. was shrieking in his crib. The shots were really taking their toll on him and he was just plain miserable. So I put the box in the garage, to be dealt with later, and attended to L.. He proceeded to cry for the next 3 hours, and I felt like crying for those same hours, but eventually I got L. calmed down, and then quickly sealed the garbage bag o’non-rodents and deposited it in the garbage can.

Throughout this adventure, a few thoughts kept me going:

Someday, I’ll look back and laugh about all this.

At least I can blog about my escapade. So, dear reader, that is why you were just subjected to this story: so that I could redeem my encounter with my home-invaders.

Oh, I found where they came in and then promptly called my husband (still in transit, by the way) to make him solemnly swear that when he got home we’d fill up the hole with cement or something else permanent. I can’t for the life of me figure out where the hole came from. Do shrews eat through cement foundations? I’m thinking no. But I hope that if any more creatures find a way into this house, they choose to make their presence known when Chad is home!

In the meantime, I am SuperMom, hear me roar! I conquered the dead animals, protecting my children from yucky smells and yuckier germs. And after a bit of Lysol-ing, I’m glad to report that the basement smells like nothing but clean.

*This post was originally published on July 27, 2006.

Filed Under: Fun, Home stuff 7 Comments

Jul 8, 2008

I Second That Emotion

written by katrina · 14 Comments

Let me preface this post by saying that I am married to a truly great guy. Over the 14+ years that we’ve been married, he’s learned that occasionally, I cry for absolutely no reason, and that when I share my deepest feelings with him, I might just need a listening ear, not a solution. He’s gone from not knowing what in the world to do when my tears start (which is, to be honest, a rare occurrence) to suggesting I climb in the bath with a good book or take a personal time out (perfect solutions).

Yet for all the progress he’s made, and for all his patience in dealing with my own fluctuating feelings, he (like many guys) still needs a bit of help when it comes to identifying and understanding the complicated world of Emotions.

As I mentioned yesterday, we had some family over on the 4th of July and, true to form, we made them play games with us. As we played Hit or Miss, the vast emotional chasm that exists between the “girls” and the “boys” became painfully obvious.

Let me set the scene:

Players
My father-in-law
Wels (Chad’s brother)
Kara (Wels’s wife)
Chad
Katrina (that’s me)

The Gist of the Game
Essentially, during each round, you write down as many items as you can think of (in one minute) that fit into the category for that round. Afterward, you share items and score points based on whether other people came up with the sames ones you did (see my full review for more info, if you’re curious).

Okay, so, in case you haven’t yet guessed, one of our rounds featured the category of:

Emotions

Kara and I immediately began scribbling down emotion after emotion on our papers. Throughout the entire minute allowed, you could hear our pencils scratching. We didn’t stop to ponder, didn’t have to think hard. And if we’d had more time, I’m sure we could have written down even more.

As for the guys? Let’s just say that their pencil-scratching was a bit slower. And more sporadic. And it stopped before the minute was up. (Chad confessed to me later that he had come up with a grand total of four emotions.)

I won’t give you a play-by-play of the entire round, but let me share a few highlights:

The first emotion shared by one of the guys was “anger.” All the guys had that one on their lists.
When one of the girls listed “confused” as an emotion, Chad was confused. The way he sees it, people either are confused or they’re not. But “feeling” confused isn’t really something he had considered.
The girls both had “depressed” on their lists (not surprising, since their lists were a mile long). But perhaps there was another good reason for that when it turned out…
Neither of our husbands had listed “love” on their lists.

Sigh… Married guys scratching their heads, trying to come up with emotions…and missing “love”?

They defended themselves by declaring that “Love is a choice!” And they’re absolutely right. In fact, the decision to love is far more important and lasting than the “feeling” of love, but I still don’t think that lets them off the hook.

There was a little good-natured ribbing all around. I wasn’t surprised at all, though. On the few occasions that I’ve asked Chad, “How does that make you feel?”, he gets a panicked look on his face and starts scrambling for an answer. If, instead, I ask “What do you think about that?”, I’m sure to get a comprehensive reply. Thinking, he totally gets. Feeling, well… We’ll keep working on that.

Either way, I love you, Chad! (And when I say “love,” I mean that as both a feeling and — more importantly — a choice!)

Updated to add: I forgot one other little fact. My father-in-law DID have “love” on his list. He was quick to say that his wife had taught him about that one.

Filed Under: Family, Fun 14 Comments

Jul 7, 2008

Formulas from our weekend

written by katrina · 7 Comments

Formula #1:

(Cl x 1) + (Co x 1) = E x 2

Translation: Clean and Cook Once –> Entertain Twice

We had a busy weekend, rather social for a bunch of homebodies. And when I say “a bunch of homebodies,” I mean two parents who are introverted homebodies and two kids who wonder why we never go anywhere or have anyone over.

But this weekend, we did have people over. Thursday night, two families joined us for snacks, desserts, and games. And then on Friday (when there was still lots o’ food and the house was still relatively clean), a few family members from Chad’s side of the family came over to help polish off the leftovers (they did a good job of that and in return, we forced them to play games with us).

Hit or Miss was a game that went over well with both groups, and the Wii was also very popular. It was nice to be social for a change, and the added bonus of “cook & clean once, entertain twice” made it even better!

Looking for some recipes that go over well with a crowd? I made Salted Peanut Chews and Red Grape Salad, among other things, and they disappeared rather quickly.

Formula #2:
PO + HP + ChTw = M(BH)

Translation: Preheated Oven plus Heavy Pan plus a Chatty Tween =
Mom has a burned hand

Okay, it’s probably not the chatty tween’s fault so much as my own for attempting to put the heavy pan in the oven with only one hand, but either way, I ended up with a lovely burn in the shape of a portion of an oven rack. Here’s a picture, four days after the initial incident:

Formula #3:
GF + EK + F = VEE@4

Translation: Good friends plus excited kids plus fireworks makes for
a very enjoyable evening on the 4th.

We have somewhat of a tradition of meeting friends in the parking lot of the local Borders on the 4th of July to watch fireworks together. It’s a no-pressure situation — whoever shows up, shows up — but we claim a little corner of the parking lot for our own, set out our camp chairs, and settle in. Well, the adults settle in; the kids are usually hopping up and down with excitement. I took C. this year (L. & Chad headed to bed much earlier than normal fireworks time) and we made an evening of it. We stopped at the grocery store for snacks, and then got to Borders early — leaving plenty of time for some book-browsing, and for me to pick up a caramel mocha to sip during fireworks. Sparklers, good conversation, and nice weather rounded out a great evening.

And finally,

Formula 4:
GBG + B-P-W = BzP

Translation: Geeky Blog Girl (me) combined with blog-post-writing results in bizarre posts (that include odd formulas like these).

Oh well.

Hope your weekend was as nice as ours!

Filed Under: Family, Fun 7 Comments