We All Scream for Ice Cream

It’s a known fact that if I eat chocolate, of any variety, I will end up with chocolate on some odd spot on my body. All over my face, on my elbow, on my foot: it’s bound to end up somewhere. This is my curse. And this contributes directly to my adventure of the night. My fate was already sealed.

In case you’ve forgotten, physical exertion (other than actual manual labor, which I relish) and I don’t necessarily get along. But, plagued with my walrus complex, I’ve been continuing to attempt to sneak in exercise. Tonight’s plan: walk to get froyo at the local home of my delicious obsession. It’s only a mile walk to get there, so seemed plenty reasonable. Plus, there would be froyo for dinner. Worth it.

Donned the workout garb (so the world would take my efforts seriously as I marched down the sidewalk) and popped in the ear buds. Hit the streets, my little drawstring backpack jingling as my keys collided with my wallet. A dozen strides into my jolly stroll to victory and I suddenly felt the humidity, noticed the ominous dark clouds, saw the wind jostle the trees around me… a storm was coming. I knew I should just turn back, but got hit with a freakish determination instead. There was no way I was going home empty-handed.

Halfway to my destination, I knew I wasn’t going to be the storm and instead opted to duck into a grocery store. It may not be as magical as picking between twenty flavors and adding on any topping imaginable, but I figured a half gallon of ice cream might do the trick. Might make me feel better about the lack of froyo, freeze my sorrows, etc. Not one to waste a trip to the grocery store, I also grabbed a grapefruit, two yogurts, a pack of gum and some waffles. Seriously, it didn’t make sense to me either, but I’m compulsive so it happened. And it all got rapidly stuffed into my tiny drawstring backpack at the checkout, in my frantic race against time.

Back outside, the sky was eerily dark, with rays of sun attempting to break the clouds on the horizon. The wind was gale force. And I was screwed.

I slung the bag over my shoulders and took off at a fast pace, hoping for the best. At the intersection, I stood impatiently, getting knocked about by the wind, sweating buckets in the humidity. And then, something worse… I had been so distracted in getting home that I didn’t realize. Despite the heat, my back was FREEZING. The ice cream was pressed squarely into my back, and by the sound of it, was melting rapidly. The signal changed.

The situation was now desperate. I broke into a jog, but the drawstring bag jumped around too much. I pulled the strings close to me so it wouldn’t bounce, but that just pulled the ice cream closer into my body heat. Attempting to arch my back so it wouldn’t melt the ice cream, I went into a half jog, half gallop. Realizing that I probably resembled a drunken Quasimodo staggering his way home, I decided to hell with it and just started running.

And that’s when the grapefruit exploded.

It had decided to give up on life, just like me. So I let out my now standard “why me?!” exasperated howl (somewhere between a sigh, a King Kong holler and a yodel)  and continued my sprint home as the grapefruit juice and ice cream soup pooled up on my back and dripped its way down my side. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to make it home before it started raining, after all that.

Sweaty and beaten, my drawstring backpack leaking on my leg, in a total huff, I arrived back to my apartment. My neighbors were unpacking their kids from their after-school activities. The small ginger girl child who always wears a rainbow tutu glared at me, a bottle of water in her hand. I judged her drinking bottled water almost as much as she judged my disheveled appearance. Politeness was exchanged with the parents. And I ducked past my birds and into my home, putting an end to the madness.

I’d also like to point out that at the time of posting this, it still has not rained. And the ice cream soup, it was delicious. Sigh.

You can't see from this angle where the chocolate ended up,
but I assure you, the curse remains stubbornly intact.

Poo-tee-weet?

So, I accidentally electrocuted a bird last summer. 

But not on purpose, I assure you.

Last summer I came home from work, and walking up my steps to my front door I saw something hanging down from my over-door light. A slight believer in bad omens, I shrieked and jumped back. There was definitely something dangling there, and I was almost certain it was a bat. But a bat hanging around in broad daylight?? Probably had rabies, or was actually a vampire or something. CLEARLY couldn't be trusted, whatever it was.

After shaking my keys at it (and then frantically moving to protect my face) and yelling and trying to get it to move, it was still there. So I took out my trusty camera (yes, no smart phone here) and took a photo of it. Then made the mad dash inside (yelling profanities all the way) and sent the pic out to the Internets to tell me what it was. Several suggestions arose. Probably a bat. Maybe a vampire. Couldn't be trusted, whatever it was. A vampire bat in broad daylight like that. AKA No one knew.

Returned downstairs to the peephole and tried to see. That was no good, the light was directly above and the peephole has the peripheral vision of my grandma. So I creaked open the door and dared to pop my head out and check. And there it was… it was a frickin' bird. A stone-cold, dead hanging bird.

The bird and its bird family had moved in several weeks prior and built itself a big old nest up inside my over-door light. It had been a welcomed change from when the birds would nest and mate on top of my in-window A/C unit in my bedroom. They got far too rowdy far too early for my liking when they were there. The over-door was much less noisy. Of course, I was always scared to leave that light on, lest I fry up their eggs, so I often had to key my way in in the dark if it was late. And they also liked to leave twigs and bird shit all over my stoop. But overall I had no qualms.

The nest. Before the incident.

Until the little bastard decided to die above my threshold. That was just plain rude. And I couldn't just LEAVE it dangling there. It would start to get weird and decayed, and no one would ever want to come visit me. So I knew it needed to go.

Called pest control. Explained that I had a dead, probably rabid, bird hanging and needed it removed. “Is it on private property?… then we can’t help you.” Fine.

Called the DNR. Explained the festering, probably diseased bird that was going to plague all the other animals and asked if they could come remove it. But apparently I didn't live in the right county to merit them coming.

Several other calls to every other wildlife agency I could find online and excuse after excuse until finally, exasperated, I blurted out to one of them, “WHO am I supposed to call then? I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO COME HELP ME WITH MY DEAD BIRD!” Their suggestion: call the police. Flustered, I told the lady there was no way I was going to call the POLICE about a dead frickin' bird. That was ridiculous.

Several hours later, I called the police.

They couldn't help me either but the nice officer I had on the line gave me what he surely thought were very detailed instructions on how to get rid of the bird myself. Pretty standard: knock it down, pick it up with rubber gloves and double bag that badboy before you throw it away. Now, I’m from “up north,” so nothing about this was too alarming to me. It was more that I had expected that, now that I live IN a CITY, there was someone who took care of this sort of thing. Someone other than me.

So I donned my rubber gloves and sunglasses, grabbed a broom and two garbage bags, and headed outside. After a deep breath, I raised up the broom and nudged at the bird to make it drop down. Nothing. It didn't fall. I poked at it a little harder, kind of swept at it like you would a cobweb in a corner. Nada. Didn't move. Just swayed a bit. The bird was stuck. The foot from which it was dangling was somehow twisted up in the janky wiring system around the light which had been its demise. It wasn't going to budge. It quickly became clear that this was about to be a showdown between me and my dead bird. The winner kept the house.

Panic stricken, I more or less just started wailing and swinging at it like some sort of pinata. It was mortifying. And I’m terribly sorry to say that it took SEVERAL minutes of this madness (note: I live on a main thoroughfare, so I can’t imagine what the passersby were thinking as they witnessed this) before my poor dead bird came loose. With an AWFUL thud/crunch, it hit the ground right at my feet. Babbling nonsense and completely hysterical at this point, I quickly double bagged him and tossed him in the trash. It was horrid. Scarring at best.

Shortly thereafter, I had my landlady clear out the nest and told her we needed to block off that light so it wasn't such an appealing nest basket. I didn't explain my ordeal, and she seemed to think it’d be fine. Needless to say, this spring another family of birds moved in. I pleaded with them. Asked why they didn't understand that they had just moved into a death trap. Didn't they remember their fallen comrade from last summer?? Were they really willing to risk orphaning their baby birds by surrounding a hot bulb with flammable twigs?

Why did you come back, birds? WHY? Save yourselves and go!
(And "Is that really what my hair looks like from the back?")

But they’re just birds. They didn't get my point and just built their nest anyway. They dive bomb me as I get my mail and they shit on my stoop. And some day, another one of those birds is going to meet its maker, and this time they can’t say I didn't warn them...

If I had legs like that, I wouldn't be carrying this watermelon…

A funny thing happens as you get older. A funny thing that I like to call “walrusing.”

When you’re young, with the metabolism of a hummingbird and hobbies such as “playing” and “running around in circles babbling for no reason,” it’s not that hard to stay fit. Even with a diet of mostly mac and cheese (Dear delicious neon orange powder, I love you) and candy. Then one day your metabolism runs off to Vegas with your finance after cleaning out your bank account and there you sit. Next thing you know, you look in the mirror and you’re the main asshat from that “Walrus and the Carpenter” scene in the classic cartoon horror Alice in Wonderland. A big, old walrus wearing a shoddy top hat, smoking a cigar and manipulating innocent oysters into getting in your belly, with the rest of the food. And you think, “Where did I even GET this cigar from? And how did I get to this point?” People see you and think things like, “Why’s that walrus wearing an Ellen vest?” and “Who let that walrus on the dance floor?”

Then you scrape your self-esteem up and pretend to get your act together. Adults eat right and exercise. Those are tops on the daily to-do list of adult things. Right next to doing taxes, dishes and laundry. Or in my case, it’s on the to-do list for a bit and then I get lazy, but then eventually it comes back around.  Of course, with summer coming, it’s time. Because the only options for ladies shorts are daisy dukes or weird knee length ones that make me look creepy and disproportionately short.

After all my walrus talk, the beau suggested a 5k this summer. We’d get in shape together once it got warmer out. But in the meantime, I determined I’d sneak off to the gym and get in shape first, so by the time we were “getting in shape together” I wouldn’t totally embarrass myself by being a wheezy hot mess after half a mile, curled up on the ground with my inhaler. I want to make it very clear: I don’t run unless being chased, or it’s Black Friday. And then I’m a sprinter at best. So, I started with short runs at the gym and outside as it got warmer. Even though I looked mostly insane.

Channeling her inner Garth hair poof...
If she were a president, she would be Baberaham Lincoln.

Then, after accidentally watching MOST of Raiders of the Lost Ark at the gym while running/biking, my knee blew out, puffed up, tweaked, etc. I let it rest and got one of those back Velcro brace things to stabilize my wonky knee. But, to quote the doc, “Some people just aren’t meant to be runners, sweetie.” AKA that running thing is on hold.

So, I decided to try eating healthier. Stop going out to eat at restaurants all the time. Limit the booze. And quickly thereafter, I decided that one out of three ain’t bad. Went to the grocery store and hit the produce. Decided to go big or go home, so I grabbed a giant watermelon and a basket of rainbow rabbit food. Needless to say, it took about five minutes of Jennifer Greying that watermelon around to give up on that crap. Instead of watermelon, I figured an increase of water INTAKE would be close enough. Read somewhere that you should try to drink half your body weight in ounces daily. Still attempting this one and it has lead to several VERY uncomfortably long conference calls at work as her tiny bladder pleads with her. Very H2-Oh-No, if you will… Oooh, I’ve always wanted to make a bad bladder joke! #CuzIm90

Finally, came back around to the “I’ll workout at home” thing. I can look as silly as I want. I can laugh during yoga without getting asked to leave the class, and sing along to my club music instead of just awkwardly mumble lip syncing and hoping no one sees. And of course, I can bust out the Richard Simmons. There is no workout quite like an Oldies Sweating workout! Working out at home is really all about enthusiasm. 

Stretching, not napping, she swears.

Since I play favorites, after watching a hodgepodge of workout videos, I’ve collected up the best and started incorporating them into what I call my “Lazy Girl Upstairs” workout. Since I live above a crazy old lady, all jumping and noise making moves are no good. I opt to only do ninja moves. Also, I try to incorporate them into the rest of my daily doings because I usually have to trick myself into working out. Those will start creeping up on this blog at some point I’m certain…. Because what’s the point of working out if other people don’t know you’re doing it?? If I don’t get credit, then I may as well be the walrus.

(Note: I really don't have a horrid body image of myself. My snarky body image just helps keep my ego in check. Always room for improvement, and tops that don't have muffins.)

Clean Up, Aisle Six

Returned to the hardware store.

"Excuse me, what type of saw would I need to cut this board? A jig saw? Or would this reciprocating saw work?"
"Oh that reciprocating saw should work just fine."
"Lovely. And what is your return policy on saws?"
Winning smile, awkward pause.
"... As long as you have the receipt, you should be good."
"Wonderful. Thanks so much for your help."

I think you get the point...

Vindication

Rage, Aisle Six

Tonight was “go fuck yourself” night at the hardware store.

Had the weekly quest to the laundromat, with a precious 35 minutes in which to run errands. After those 35 minutes, the washer unlocks and the battle royale for the machine commences. This time around, I had a very specific mission for those minutes. A shelf. I needed a shelf to finally finish off the bar I made for my living room (out of what was formerly a mantle from a church, featuring a dedication to a woman name Gretchen, who I of course presume was a nun… but that’s a story for another day).

As soon as the laundry was in, I hit it to the nearest big-chain hardware store. As a twenty-something woman going into these stores, I take the same approach every time: find an elderly male employee. He’ll want to help you like a father would his daughter, then you dazzle him with your handy-lady knowledge. He’ll be oh so helpful and you’ll get out quicker. Instead, I ran into a middle-aged female employee. This is hit or miss. In this case, a win! She knew just the aisle and pointed to send me on my way without feeling like she needed to hold my hand and walk me there because I might get lost. Beautiful. On the way, get accosted by three more employees:

1. The young guy, who I barely let get a word out without saying, “I’m fine, thanks!”
2. The young lady, who thought about asking if I needed help but saw I was walking swiftly so hesitated and awkwardly slinked away
3. The middle-aged man, who blocked my path and said, “Can I help you find anything, little lady?” 

The third one was the trigger to what became a building rage. We’re not in the deep south, you’re not a cowboy and I’m not ten years old, so there’s no circumstance where “little lady” is appropriate. I got around him after a terse rejection of his offer and got to the shelves. All too long or too short. Grabbed one that was about four inches too long and went to the cutting station. Found several young male employees scrapping about, BSing around the forklift, as they tend to do.

Put on the winning smile and pulled out a charming, “Would one of you gentlemen be able to help me trim this shelf, please?” Half wink.
The leader of the BS conversation says, “I’m sorry, but the saw is broken.”
Winning smile glitches slightly. I retort, “You’re joking, right? That’s terribly inconvenient for a store that sells lumber…”
The group chuckles, the lead BSer just smiles and says, “Oh yes, terrible, just can’t cut, just now, just saw a pretty girl walk over and forgot what its job was.”
The creepy pick-up line was lost on me as I asked, “No seriously though, is it broken or not?”
Laughter ensued, “Oh yeah, totally broken…”

Not in the mood for a jovial harassment, I turned heel and walked away. Echoes of “only joking” followed as I pushed the board into the arms of a manager on the way out and left the store, annoyed.

15 minutes till time was up.

Into the car and quickly to the other big-box hardware store two blocks down. Quickly in, looking for an employee to inquire where to find shelving. No one. Not a soul. So I hot-footed it in the direction of some “close enough” hanging sign and finally found the shelves. Again, too long or too short. Grabbed one that was three inches too long and went to find the cutting station. Not a single employee within six aisles on either side of it to help me out.

So of course, eff that noise. Grabbed a pair of goggles and marked the board off with a pencil and a ruler. Lined it up to cut off those two inches. Read the little sign that said how to operate/turn on the saw and clicked it. An outcry from several aisles down. An employee had finally shown up and was very distraught about me using the saw. Shut it off, stepped back and waited for them to arrive (since they were clearly coming from WHO KNOWS WHERE – since there were NO employees to help in that store).  They arrive and garble on about safety. I point out that no where on the signs does it indicate that the saw is for employee use only and I tried to find an employee but couldn't. Just a little girl, didn't know any better. Hand them the goggles, ask politely if they’d kindly cut the board for me, so sorry, didn't really mean to cause a fuss, thanks so much for your help, etc.

This guy then proceeds to tell me that they "aren't allowed" to cut off less than a foot, so he can’t cut off the three inches on my shelf. Says what I can do is go get a way too long shelf (which costs several dollars more) and then it would be more than a foot getting cut off so it’d be fine. So I could just go waste my money and time and a tree and go do that. In a huff, I tell him to wait there and sprint back to the shelves. Grab the obnoxious long shelf and rapidly return to the saw station.

Five minutes til laundry was done.

And the guy is gone. And there is no employee within six aisles on either side. And the bastard took the goggles with him (and I know better than to disobey a rule without safety goggles on). After a near-barbaric outburst of exasperation, I put the board on the saw and wrote a post-it saying, “Thanks for nothing” and left the store. Yes, I carry post-its just for such occasions of passive-aggressive rage. Is an appropriately sized board so much to ask for?? I'm not about to go buy a proper electric saw, and we all know that if I get a handsaw this will turn into some weird Saw moment as I accidentally chop off my leg (those things are hard to control with my supreme lack of upper body strength).

Raced back to my laundry, and that SAME elderly Asian woman who had it out for me previously was about to dump my clothes out again. At that point though, with me in my lack-of-shelf Hulk-mode, bitch didn't stand a chance…

La trahison des hardware stores

I Think Tomorrow is a "Say Something" Hat Day

This Saturday is one of my favorite sporting days in the calendar year – Derby Day. To me, it marks the start of the warm, wonderful, themed weekends of summers. I say entirely unapologetically… I frickin’ love the Kentucky Derby.

The Kentucky Derby fulfills the fundamental needs of my inner little girl attitude: ponies and playing fancy dress-up. Ponies were meant to run. Donning colorful headgear is a bonus. Likewise women are meant to run about, donning amazing hats, brunch-with-grandma-appropriate dresses and fabulous heels. Derby Day Dapper brings out the best in the fellas and just reeks of an Old South class and charm. Little girls love handsomely dressed, charming men. And let’s face it: Mint Juleps are really just sassy snow-cones for adults.

An ode to Vida Boheme and dearest Audrey

Seeing the sweeping shots of Churchill Downs and the epic recaps of the glorious wins of the past, it makes me feel an awkwardly intense sense of pride. This good old fashioned pony race is tradition. I remember putting on the silly hats with as much fake floral as we could pin on, picking our champions and watching the race. My grandma, mom, aunts, sister: all in our ridiculous hats. And it was magical. I had next to no idea what was happening, but I had a fun hat on, my family, something to cheer for and there were ponies. On Derby Day, I was the happiest damn kid on the planet.

Now, I may not be a betting woman, but when it comes this, a gal needs a victor. On Derby Day, I love tossing money at and cheering for exotically named creatures; much like a bachelor party at a Vegas strip club – only with more verve. Days of buildup leads to two minutes of total spastic shrieking, jumping and joy.  Those horses spend their whole lives training for that moment. Their jockeys vying for that moment in sun, under the mass of roses. Both chasing that illusive Triple Crown. You get two minutes of pure adrenaline and a glorious day of shenanigans. Much less pressure, many more Juleps!

So this weekend, you’ll know where to find me… Decked out in my most obnoxious hat and pearls. Belting out the words to “My Old Kentucky Home.” With a tear in my eye and a song in my heart - despite never having lived in Kentucky. Because no matter where you call home, during the bugle call to post, we’re all neighbors at Churchill Downs. And maybe that’s the point…

Hoofing at holy ground, on the track at Churchill Downs - put me in, coach!