Dr. Doolittle

At approximately 9:52pm, the following happened at the Ware House:

D: "N, Laura, come here a second."

M and I give up our fire side seats and walk to the front door. D opens the front door and a horrible nasty smell waffles in.

Me: "Gross!"

M: "Is that a skunk?!"

D: "Yes."

M: "Well then shut the door!"

Yes, D couldn't simply tell us he saw a skunk outside or that the motion detector lights went off. He had to open the door, and prove to us BY THE SMELL that a skunk had attacked our house. The past 10 minutes have consisted of repeatedly yelling at D and questioning his intellect, (because moments before he insisted that, despite speaking with the airlines who told him a flight was sold out, he was determined to find a seat somewhere on the internet) closing all windows, futilely spraying vanilla Febreeze everywhere and anywhere, and then questioning D's intellect some more.

I know we all have smelled a skunk. We have passed by them and their scents at over 60 mph. But this is a little different. The skunk smell is actually in the house, on my clothes and up my nose. And now, I'm eating a really poor imitation of vanilla smell (yes, it does seem possible to eat a smell.)

Seriously!

Update, 10:14pm ~ D is now wanting to prepare a skunk trap.

Update, 11:15pm ~ M: "It stinks in my house! Oh my god it stinks in my house!"

Update, 11:50pm ~ M: cough, cough "I think I'm choking. I think I'm going to die." Me, laughing: "That just earned you another spot on the blog." M: "Laura, please no!"

Here we go again!

Situation: 39 days until Thanksgiving. Impending threat of post-marathon, personal winter insulation growth.

Solution: It's time for a little "Lenting"!

That's right. I've taken the great pre-Easter tradition and verbed it. (Or is that adverbed it? Please don't let my mother, the famous Gaston English teacher, and superior editor of all papers, read this.)

I decided to be a little crazy earlier this year and Lented (verbed it again!), seriously, for the first time ever. What did I give up? Only my biggest vise, only the best thing ever: sugar. Refined sugar. Day 3 almost killed me. But I made it. All 40 days - which is a miracle in itself. Does that means I am halfway to becoming a saint? I better start working on the paperwork. Now if I could only bring someone back to life by starying at them cross-eyed. . .I have got to work on that. But I almost killed myself on Easter. FYI - it's a really bad idea to have a mocha, donut AND Cadbury Egg for breakfast - really bad. Just take it from me. Oh sure, you're singing and talking and walking around (all at warp speed) and the world is great. It's the happiest day of the year because there's more to celebrate on Easter than any other day. Sugar just heightens the experience. Your singing voice is louder. Your hugs are stronger. Your greetings are friendlier. The jokes you tell are funnier. Everyone around you is better off because of the sugar you have ingested. The sugar that should be spread out over several weeks is now headed straight to your brain.

And that's when you crash.

First comes the headache. So you pop some Advil. You attribute it to maybe getting up really early. Then comes the stomach ache. Yeah, I probably did eat too much of Aunt J's potatoes. Then comes the nausea. And once you're here, there ain't no going back. You find yourself in the fetal position hoping that you'll pass out or black out. But you can't do either because you're pretty sure you're going to lose your lunch at any second. And you think, I might as well undo my top button on my pants because I am going to be laying on this couch for quite some time. The final step is to swear off sugar forever. And then break that promise sometime between 7 & 9am the next morning when you have a leftover, homemade Bearclaw for breakfast; proving once again that I learn nothing from my mistakes.

So you are all on notice world. No refined sugar for 39 days.

To quote the critically acclaimed artist, Gnarls Barkley:

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind. . .

Maybe I'm crazy

Proof I really did it!

In case there was any doubt - below is proof I really did run the marathon!

Me and Rachel in our matching t-shirts at mile 25. So cute!

After 26 miles, I'm coming down the .2 home stretch. Pretty sure I'm smiling at the "Rachel & Laura Fan Club" with their signs and cheers.

THE FINISH LINE!!!

Friday Fun Day! 1st ed.

I couldn't figure out how to post this directly into the blog so you'll have to travel to the web site. Scroll down until you find the song "Peter the Meter Reader." Sit back. Listen. Enjoy!

This song is hysterical and I would like to dedicate it to my deskmate, Pete.


http://www.projectplaylist.com/download/4328195

Home is where the. . .where is home?

Try to define the word "home". Go ahead. I'll wait. . . . . .have your definition? Does it include something about feeling comfortable & relaxed, a place of love, where you spend the night? I'm not really sure where my home is these days. Sounds crazy? Not really, ask anyone that knows me, I've said crazier and made more sense doing it. Sound crazy? Seriously, I could do this all day.

Home: a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household I realize that there is a very cute house with a cute porch with equally cute rocking chairs on that porch that holds a lot of my stuff. (or crap as my mom lovingly calls it because, let's face it, I simply can't throw away that pencil I bought at the Alamo during spring break my sophomore year in college.) But there is also a very white, very plain storage unit that is doing the same thing (holding my fans, summer clothes, "fun" glasses & more crap.) M&D and mostly my puppies (past & future) make me feel at home. (DUH, I know this is my home. Please no hate mail about how I'm unappreciate of my parents' sacrifices. But a girl has to fill a double blog entry somehow rambling about something!)

Home: The place where something is discovered, founded, developed, or promoted But where is home, really? As the work load ramps up and as the school year marches on, I am spending more and more time in locations where I can work on both. For 9 hours a day I am just beyond the walls of "The Berm". That is more than a third of my day and half of my waking life. That's a heck of a lot of time! Good thing I love my co-workers. We eat together, sing together, laugh together, throw squishy stress balls and not-so-soft-soccer balls at each other. We have an authority figure making sure we don't get into trouble, we have to play nicely together, we even get bills and paychecks delivered to us every day. I can eat 3 meals here if I wanted. I can do my laundry here if I wanted. I can work out, get a perm, repair a broken nail, and shower here. Sounds like a home to me! The Crack Team of Rejects have welcomed me into their home.

Home: where you live at a particular time Then there's school - which is kind of like a stereotypical divorced family setting in a Lifetime or Oxygen movie. You have the library & the classroom. The library would be like mom's house where you spend most of your time. It's always warm. People are always very friendly & willing to help you find whatever you need. There's big oversize cozy chairs, The classroom is dad's pad. You're not there very long at all - only a couple hours a week. The furniture is old & ugly, you don't know any of the other kids, it's hard to be there because you don't understand anything that the guy's teaching you (he's old & doesn't get you at all). And you're basically thrilled when you get out of there because you'd rather be anywhere than in there. Looks like I split my time between 2 homes.

Home: (in games) the destination or goal: Ever tried to run 26.2 miles in one straight shot? Yeah, I didn't think so. Only the coolest of cool and the strongest of strong have done it. (which is quite ironic because I am neither cool nor strong.) If you ever do try - and I HIGHLY suggest that you do - you will be spending a lot of time on deserted backroads and congested city streets. Lots of gravel, lots of grass, lots of bike lanes and lots of shout outs to my guardian angel for his/her protection from semis & snakes. I used to think there was nothing better than riding my bicycle just after the sun came up on the weekends and the cows were the only other creatures awake. Now that I firmly hate bicycles and the danger the present to everyday people, I can say there's nothing better than running under the same circumstances. I love having the house to myself in the mornings.

Heaven: a place or state of supreme happiness Or what about that place that you spend the least amount of time but it's the place you feel most alive? What if there's a certain room, location, building that makes you feel that the REAL you is coming out? Or what if the location isn't important but the people that surround you are? Is it the E-pod? Brick room? Or the zoo because you're with the same people - especially The One VIP - that are always with you in the E-pod & Brick Room? Yes, I go home every Sunday morning. It's quite possibly my favorite home. (if only we could can the dang A.C. to work!) I travel with my family members: B & K. Heck, even I have kids in this home!

To quote the song whose lyrics I have taped up on my computer screen to keep me in check at at work:

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far

And grace will lead me home.

I heart my job

It is now 12:17pm and I just finished the best part of my day. Rather than explain, let me give you some clues and you can fill in the gaps on your own:

*team of girls
*team of boys
*squishy stress balls
*no boss
*big open conference room
*an invisible center line

But seriously, we're stressed around here. Really, even the temp can't take a lunch break. Believe me, we have tons to do.

26.2

Scenario: a man runs as fast as he possibly can back to his home town to update everyone on the war his town is currently involved in. This distance happens to be 26.2 miles. The man dies upon arrival.

Genius idea: Let's recreate a run that killed the first man who did it. And because he was such a pathetic athlete, (hello - he didn't survive) let's not name it after him but the name of his town. AND, let's make people pay money to run the same distance and tell them its actually fun! We'll throw in a shirt just to seal the deal.

Well, I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. I shelled out money for the race, making race day shirts, gas for driving to long run locations, a certain mp3 player, a Nike+ system. . .good gravy, no wonder I'm broke!

Who cares if my time isn't very good? Who cares if my knee is in a bit of pain? Who cares if it took until mile 6 to pass the guy lugging his own oxygen tanks behind him? I ran up "the wall". I ran the last 2.2 miles. I mastered the art of grabbing cups full of liquid without stopping. I mastered the art of blocking out pain. There are just a handful of things I've ever done in my life that are more emotional than those last .2 miles up Salmon Street with "The Fat Lady" singing, hearing strangers cheer & applaud you, seeing familiar faces holding signs with your name on them. And don't forget the best part - all the free Starbucks mud pies you can eat!

Today

The definition of today, Saturday, October 6, 2007: sublime

Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.

A couple nights ago, I saw a television ad that could have fallen under the category of "shock and awe". I sat there, jaw dropped, unable to speak. When I finally remembered I had vocal cords, I still couldn't create whole sentences; they were more like noises and incoherant babblings. They sounded like, "ahhhhh" and "huuuuh" and "boooooooooo". OK, I did manage to squeak one word out that could be found in the dictionary. Except mine had way more "O's" at the end than Mr. Samuel Johnson ever intended it to have.


Before I tell you what my eyes were subjected to, a little background. I hate change. Hate it. Just when you get in the groove of something, it goes and changes itself. (Yes, I am a big fan of the book Who Moved My Cheese. I almost bought it at the Atlanta airport when I knew I needed a refresher course. But the penny-pincher in me beat up the change-hater in me, so I checked it out from the library when I got home.) I'm also a fan of tradtion. A bride should not see the groom before the wedding. Pizza should be eaten on Saturday nights. The Blazers should not reach the playoffs. Orange Fruit Loops should be eaten last.

Which brings me to the ad that has me in a tizzy, the all new board game: Electronic Monopoly! No more money! Visa logos! Batteries not included! What kind of crap is this?? And don't even get me started on the new playing pieces. Monopoly. . .without paper money?? Are you kidding me?? What's wrong with paper money? Yeah, it does help kids with math. Yeah, it is more fun when your stacks are visibly higher than those of your friends. What is it now: I have a bigger total number than you? whoopee! I would never turn in my $100 dollar bills because they were made on a different kind of paper (shinier & smoother) than the other denomonations. I never turned them in for $500's. This way I could psych my sister out and make her think I had more money simply because I had more bills. I love how they're all so organized under your side of the board at the beginning and mixed up as all get-out by the time the game was over 13 hours later. I know we use debit cards more and more and I realize that cash is being used less and less. But I spend 8 hours a day looking at a computer, then I may watch TV at home. Do I really want to play a board game that has me pressing buttons and looking at screens? The correct answer is no. I can just picture my kids playing this game and asking me to reminisce about the days when Monopoly had money, poker was played with actual cards, not on the internet and when I stopped being cool in general (1993, FYI).

I learned today that I am an old fuddy-duddy.

Creating a line for the bathroom

Here were some of the more hilarous quotes from this weekend. . .taken totally out of context of course:

Girl 1: "Em Em Bop"
Boy 1: "Do you mean MmBop?

Girl 1 in faint whisper: "Is that sexual?"

Girl 2 in quizzical/disbelieving tone: "Do they really use those?"

I learned this weekend that I totally have middle child syndrome.