Tackled By My To Do’s

List of things I’m supposed to do tonight:

  • Clean the bathroom
  • Dust every tabletop, knick-knack, and picture frame in the house
  • Liberally apply Windex to every glass surface that Doc either likes to lick or shake water on after baths
  • Vacuum the carpets
  • Sweep the hardwood floor
  • Make a grocery list for tomorrow
  • Cook nutritious, delicious meal

List of things I feel like doing tonight:

  • Eat Chinese takeout
  • Watch mindless TV

It appears we have a bit of a disparity.

I’m attending the bridal shower of a very good friend tomorrow afternoon, which means that all my Saturday chores have become Friday night chores.  This is normally fine, except for the small hiccup that I’m exhausted after a very busy week at work and have less than no desire to spic the span out of the house.

Lucky for me, Wes is going to help me clean the house (he’s such an awesome husband) and he’s graciously allowed me to fudge the budget a bit and order Chinese food.  Unlucky for you (perhaps), this means that I only have time enough to blog only this very small amount.  It will have to do until next week, wherein I pick myself up off the floor and start this whole crazy cycle over again.

Bon voyage, a bientot, y adios, friends, may your weekends be long and your to do lists short.

TTDNST: Men Fixing Things

I was so busy at work today that, when I paused to check the clock and figure out how much time I had left at work, I was shocked to discover that I was ten minutes past the time I was supposed to clock out!  It’s bizarre when time slips away from you like that, you start wondering whether you’ve got a touch of the multiple personality disorder, the Alzheimer’s, or some designer drug combination of both.

Seeing as how I may have a new disorder called multiple Alzheimer’s disorder, it’s a good thing today is Thursday because otherwise I might forget what I was planning to write about.  Thursdays are, as we all know, the day when I share with you the week’s Thing That Does Not Suck.

I’m quite excited about this week’s Thing.  For one, it features no profanity (I was a tad concerned about last week’s Thing because, even though I thought it was clever and funny, it was rather profane and violent!)  For another, it also features my husband, who is handsome and talented.

Behold this week’s Thing:

Doc is lending moral support while Wes fixes the sink.

Doc is lending moral support while Wes fixes the sink.

This is my husband fixing our sink.  While nice in and of itself, the reason it’s featured here is because of what it represents: Men fixing things.  Which just happens to be this week’s Thing That Does Not Suck.

I realize that women fix things all the time (I, for one, have been known to be a bit of an ingenue when it comes to fixing deadbolts) but there’s just something nice about when men take it upon themselves to fix things around the house.  It doesn’t matter if they’re plunging stopped-up toilets, tightening bolts on faucets, greasing hinges, or caulking bathtubs, there’s just something very right about a man fixing things.

Sure, they can get a little cranky when they’re elbow-deep in eggshells that were accidentally disposed of down the sink.  Of course they’d rather be doing other things than hanging pictures eleventy-billion times because you just want to try the picture in one more spot.  It goes without saying that they’d rather play a video game than try to figure out why the upstairs toilet isn’t flushing.

But!  They do it anyway (Or at least I hope they do.  If you’re a married lady and your husband doesn’t do these things for you, then this post is really for you, isn’t it?).  Because they love us.  Because they’re good at it.  Because they do not suck.

Thanks for fixing our stuff, men across the world.  Without you, we’d either have to learn how to fix things ourselves or hire people to fix them for us.  Thank you for insuring us against a future where we either have to take sinks apart or watch handymen and plumbers twirl their mustaches and laugh all the way to the bank.

Oh, and Wes?  I’m sorry about that whole eggshells debacle.  In my defense, though, at least it wasn’t beef fat.

Face Value

An interesting side-effect of not having cable television (besides not having to pay for it every month) is that we’re perpetually a day behind everyone else in terms of our familiarity with breaking news, and we’re reliably a full year behind everyone else on popular shows.

When everyone was freaking out about The Hatch (on Lost, if you’re a newb) we had just started the show and were trying to figure out what in the blue blazes was up with the scary smoke monster.  When co-workers were laughing about “Support the Rabid” (on The Office), Wes and I were tensely wondering if Jim was going to stay with the other branch.

It’s strange living your life like this, continually out of touch and behind the times, but also nice as well.  It’s easier to disappear.  If I’m stressed because economic news is getting me down, I don’t have to worry about seeing a commercial touting the Latest Scary Headlines at 8!  If Wes and I feel like disappearing for a weekend, all we have to do is stay away from our computers and then it’s just us and the puppy.

This is turning into a lengthier intro than I was anticipating but oh well.  Onto the point!  I was talking to my good friend yesterday and she was filling me in on the gruesome chimp attack that happened awhile ago.  I hadn’t heard anything about it and she was giving me the terrible details.

When she was done, she said something interesting and I’ve been pondering it since.  She said that, if it had been her in the attack, she would have been angry at the doctors for resuscitating her.  In my friend’s opinion, life wouldn’t be worth living with a terribly disfigured face.

This ties in with the whole isolated-from-civilization thing by virtue of me having space to think about this issue without being pummeled with new information every few seconds.  I heard the succinct details from my friend and now I’m digesting those details.

I’m genuinely trying to figure out whether life would be worth living if my face looked like ground beef.  Of course I’d like to say I’d be willing to go on after such a horrible thing, but I’m not going to pretend that the prospect of spending a lifetime with those injuries wouldn’t be a bleak consideration, either. 

Still, even though I wouldn’t look forward to all the stares and disfigurement, I would rather be alive and kicking than dead.  So I guess that’s the choice made.  It’s still a tragic situation, though.

What I’m puzzling over is what this issue is.  Is this an issue of values?  Whether you value your life or your looks?  Or is this more a question of where your priorities are and how you view yourself?  As a blogger, I could look like a centaur and none of you would ever be the wiser.  If I were a sales person or a PR rep, would I make a different choice?

It’s a tough issue, and one I’m glad I don’t have to make.  This whole incident will make me think fiercely before taking my kids to the ape house at the zoo.  Of that you can be sure.  On the plus side, I have no doubt that if a chimp tried to attack my kid, the chimp would be the one who ended up without a face.

The Onion Conspiracy

This is an onion.

This is an onion.

Yep.  That’s a big onion, isn’t it?  My goodness, that is practically the Godzilla of onions, right there.  What would you say if I were to ask you what kind of an onion this is?  Let’s expand the exercise even further: You’re the checker at my local grocery store.  You slide this bad-boy onto your scale-thing and pause, contemplating which PLU to enter for this vegetable.

What would you guess, if you were said checker making said judgment call?[poll id=”4″]

Well, if you answered any answer other than “Why wouldn’t I just ask?” you have the same method of problem solving as every. single. checker. at my local grocery store.  I kid you not, I really am writing a blog post about buying onions so just lay back and let the madness wash over you for a bit.

Seriously, though, the checkers at Safeway do this to me every time.  They slide my (inexpensive) yellow onions onto the scale, rap out the PLU code for the imported (twice as expensive) sweet onions and call it good.  Every single time.  They just assume I’m either too dumb or too inattentive to notice that I’m paying twice as much for my onions as I should be.

Little do they know, however, that I am now the Onion Police and will never again pay extra for my onions if I can help it.  Instead of spitting inanities at the inept checkers after I get home and notice the error, I politely notify them of my onions’ status before they slide them onto the scale thing.  Two times out of every three, they still enter the wrong code and I have to ask them to void the charge and try again.  I even give them the correct PLU code because I am helpful.

Do you know how I get rewarded for my niceness, though?  I almost always get ‘tude.  Snotty high schooler/community college student attitude.  They roll their eyes.  They blow out an exasperated breath.  They sometimes even stare at me for a second before arguing with me about what kind of onions I picked out.

It takes every single fiber of my being to restrain myself from informing them that their life would be a lot easier if they just did their job correctly the first time without harassing honest hard-working citizens for being diligent about their produce.  Heavens to Betsy, forgive me lest I interrupt your day by insisting that you not charge me twice as much for shoddy regular old yellow freaking onions.

Obviously I have lost touch with reality on this issue.  I would be lying if I said that this tirade doesn’t ricochet across my mind every single time I have to endure the ignominious trial of being the obvious source of some checker’s annoyed moment.  Seeing as how I’m a nice person, though, I never say it and instead seethe about it until such time as I get home and rant about it to Wes, who thinks it’s funny.

I can’t be the only person who’s ever been victimized by the oblivious over-zealous checkers at grocery stores.  Someone’s got to stand up for our rights to pay reasonable prices for the produce we actually select, right?  Someone has to be sympathetic to the fact that this is a fuji, not an organic gala apple.  Someone has to notice that this is parsley, not cilantro.  Someone should notice when you bring romaine, not green leaf lettuce, to the checkout.  I don’t know who that person is, but I’d like to shake his or her hand.

Weekend Stimulus Plan Proposal

I henceforth move to abolish all busy weekends, to be reinstated never, for the good (and sanity) of all hardworking people everywhere.  It is in the best interest of all people expected to produce worthwhile results during the workweek to have a genuine weekend.  A weekend that allows them to putter around the house getting odd tasks done.  A weekend that gives them space to breathe and and regroup.  A weekend abundant with opportunities to relax. 

Now, this could just be a unique-to-Erika situation, but a busy weekend seriously cramps my style for the entire workweek.  I’m tired, less creative, and more inclined to get snippy with the people who annoy me.  It is my opinion that giving people an extra weekend day, should the weekend be too busy to allow for such relaxation, would improve the productivity and attitude of workers worldwide.  We shall call this proposal the “Weekend Stimulus Plan”.

This weekend definitely qualifies for the weekend stimulus plan.  On Friday I tore out of work like a bat out of…a bat cave of course, and off we went for our first consultation with our brand new accountant.  After that, we zoomed over to have dinner with Wes’ brother and his lovely family (my sister-in-law makes a mean lasagna, in case you’re curious) and had a really great time.

We didn’t get home until midnight (because that’s how wild and crazy we are) so by then it was too late to blog.  Enter Saturday, wherein I completely lost my mind trying to do entirely too much and failing miserably.  I tried to clean the house in an hour (fail), tried to find away around the traffic that was making me late for my writing group meeting (triple fail, for getting lost, accidentally driving up a sidewalk, and curbing my tires while trying to parallel park), and squeezing in grocery shopping early enough to make dinner at a reasonable hour (also fail, as dinner was served at 7:30pm).

To add to all of that drama, I ran into my number one least favorite person at the coffee shop where I was meeting my writing group: My ex-boss.  The one from my first out-of-college job.  The person who inspired this post about it raining poop, and this post about feeling eviscerated, and this post about leaving rotting shrimp in the air ducts of his office.

He was sitting right by the door when I walked in and he totally noticed me.  He glared, in fact, with his great big sour face.  I, of course, handled it with my customary grace and aplomb: I completely ignored him.

So now it’s Sunday and Wes is washing the dog and I’m investigating how to get a restraining order so my ex-boss will legally not be allowed to talk to me. So,  just another Sunday for us, really.  If the weekend stimulus plan were enacted, though, I’d have a whole extra day with which to get my hand back on straight.  I just need one extra day.  And a mai tai.  But mostly just an extra day.