I want to share my snack with you!

Here you go. Have a bite! The perf concoction of tang, sweet, crunchy, and filling. Pic taken just for you, by my cell phone. Enjoy.

Coffee turns me into a crazed freak.

I think Nugs is with me on this one, but anytime I drink even one half cup of coffee it makes my brain and body go instantly nuts. Here's why:

• My fingers can't type fast enough to match the multitudes of simultaneous thoughts in my brain.
• If I can't think of the next thing I need to do at work I do something to hold me over for a couple seconds until I think of it, like refreshing my inbox or loading a new page only to close it right away.
• When I finish the half cup I have to immediately take a twosie.
• My leg that's on the floor bounces and my crossed leg jiggles the foot back and forth.
• I talk really fast and then wonder if I'm talking too fast then I try to talk slower then I wonder if I'm talking too slow.
• I have the very distinct feeling that I'm in a dream, especially if I am wearing my glasses because with them on I can see up close but not far away.

Also I want you to know that I just drank one half cup of coffee, and I couldn't think of anything to do immediately so that is why I wrote this thank you very much have a good day ok bye.

A lunch gone clean

Yesterday, my friend Domestic Diva and I had a lovely lunch together in the skyway that connects our places of work. You would think two twenty-somethings would base the majority of their conversation on love, work, hopes and maybe, oh I don't know, Jane Austen. But no. We could not stop talking about one thing.

Dustbusters.

Do you have one? Do you have any model recommendations? DD has one and I want one in an extremely serious way. I want one like you want a scoop of dirt cake out of your roommate's pan. I want one like you want it to be 4 am instead of 7 am when your alarm goes off.

The swiffer is not cutting it. Wet or dry, it just sort of pushes stuff around. Yes, I will admit that when dust bunnies magically float over to the edge of the dry swiffer it does sent a shiver of delight to that part of me that lives for a clean apartment, but in essence it's just sort of smearing dust with some other dust. And the wet swiffer, don't even get me started on that. Can we say tiles, people? How are you supposed to sweep or mop with tiles? I'll tell you how.

Dustbusters. Picture this. I sweep everything on the kitchen floor into one pile. Then, instead of attempting to sweep the contents onto the dustpan or using my (ew!) hands to pick up the big chunks, I could just vroooooooooom suck those puppies right up. And! I could even use it on our small rugs which is the extent of our carpeting, explaining why we are without an actual vacuum cleaner.

Can you picture it? Eeeeee!

Parents start rap group, make daughter proud

Upon seeing my mom's do-rag in a photo this morning, I realized my parents could be legitimately cooler than I am.


They took off last Tuesday for a four-day snowmobiling trip which was followed by a weekend of relaxation in their Northwoods cabin. They're pretty much professional cyclists in the summer, and bike on a track in our basement in the winter. And they've been lifting weights ever since I can recall having a memory.

The coolest thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is sub in at a broom ball game where I froze my toes, was mostly off to the side, and we lost.

How. did. this. happen.

Can't...stop...listening...

to:

Lake Michigan, by Rogue Wave.

Girlfriend inadvertantly shocks grandparents

I get awkward around grandparents. Especially when they aren't mine.

My acquaintance of the manly sort brought me to his hometown this weekend in order to hang with his fam. But inevitably, something always happens between his two complete sets of grandparents and me that is notable. Here is this visit's adventure:

It usually starts with that inching toward the door, are-we-going-to-hug-or-aren't-we moment. Of course they're going to hug their grandson. But are they expecting me to go in for the girlfriend-we-don't-know-that-well embrace? Turns out, they were.

But let's step back a moment. I need to mention that the Northern Minnesota town we were in is extremely dry and freezing right now. I tried not to touch anyone during the weekend because I don't seem to do too well in dry atmospheres in the area of...not shocking people.

Fast forward. The grandma is giving me the dead-lock eyes look that means she's ready to encircle me in her cuddly arms. I lean in, it goes off without a hitch, then her hand accidentally grazes my jeaned buttock and my buttock gives off a small, electric shock. But I don't think she noticed. What I don't know is...how the grandpa couldn't have noticed what came next.

Gramps looked me in the eyes, cocked his head slightly to the left, and opened his arms. I went left to counter his mirrored left, and our ears grazed which resulted in me giving him a piercing, almost audible ear-shock.

Being the gent he is, he slowly backed away and smiled in that oblivious, always-happy grandpa way. I'm just hoping I didn't inflict any permanent damage on those sweet sweeties.

My eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyes.

So I don't mean to write about my body all the time, but listen. I had an eye appointment today, and I apparently forgot how extremely painful and sucky getting your eyes dilated is. Observe.


See? OW. And no they did NOT give me sweet Michael Jackson disposable sunglasses.

Quick ganglion update

Angela is very, very small these days and almost completely gone.


But she's not happy about it.

get ready to let the tears flow.

This, I am telling you in all honesty, is my favorite scene from any TV show ever. Enjoy.

"severe embarassment" doesn't do it justice.

I made the biggest, dumbest mistake ever.

Upon receiving my first paycheck at my job, I was disappointed at the amount. I calculated what my salary would be over a year, and it was multiple thou short of what the salary was in my offer letter.

But of course, we all know I have issues with offer letters.

I told my close friends about it. They said 'what the frick', and that I need to talk to payroll about it. At first, I thought I'd wait it out and see if my next paycheck was larger. Then I told myself that was ridiculous, because paychecks don't change unless you work more or less.

So I bit the bullet and emailed payroll, explaining everything and wondering what was going on. The patient woman emailed me back, telling me it was the correct amount and would add up to my correct salary.

Then, we both figured out my problem and she emailed me a mere moment before I emailed her.

52 weeks.

A year has 52 weeks! Of course I knew that, but I was thinking that people get two paychecks a month, so I was calculating the amount times 24 (12 months times 2 paychecks a month) instead of 26 (52 weeks divided by 2 paychecks a month).

Ughghhghghghghghghghhghgghhghghgghgh embarrassment!!!! I guess journalists really can't do math. Or at least this one can't.

Attack of the suburbians.

I never told you what happened at A Prairie Home Companion, did I?

Well, let me tell you.

First off, I went to A Prairie Home Companion two weeks ago. The show was great. Tickets are only $10 for students on rehearsal night. And "rehearsal night" is a full-blown show, just the same as the real night except maybe even better.

The bad news is that the crowd is JAM PACKED with adults from the suburbs who are coming into town to "let loose." So that means they act like complete pre-schoolers! Honestly, it's like they've never been in public before. The chick behind us spilled her entire drink the moment the show started, she laughed louder and harder at every joke (and many lines that weren't even jokes) than anyone I've ever heard, man or beast, and she stomped her tree trunk legs up and down repeatedly EVERY time lively music played, pounding the floor so loud that it rocked our chairs!

And then if that wasn't bad enough, don't even get me started on the woman that sat in front of us. She was so hyper that it was like she was on middle-age suburb woman crazy drugs! She was short, so she couldn't really see over the banister (we were in the balcony). Her solution was to sit on the very front edge of her chair and bend her body over the railing with her arms dangling over the side for the majority of the show. So, her shoulders and hair-sprayed hair-to-the-heavens were blocking most of the stage for everyone behind her.

Consider this photo for a visual of how she was leaning.


And then when she would finally pull back she would sit on her knees and bounce around and a couple of times she even raised her feet up in the air, like near her head! She was playing with her boot, I guess?

Seriously! What is wrong with these people? They can't sit still and they apparently think a radio show is an appropriate time to let themselves act like complete blockheads and they don't understand the concept that other people might want to listen to what's going on on stage! Frick!

I parted my hair on the other side yesterday.

And it. changed. my. LIFE.

I was smarter. I was prettier. I was wittier. I was cool.
I worked harder. I looked better. I was a go getter. I didn't drool.
I laughed more. I talked more. I walked more. I flew.
I sang more. I made better jokes. I befriended folks. I drank a Dew.*

My whole life I thought my hair would only allow me to part it on the right side. But yesterday, my dear sweet pirates, I went left.

I went left.


*I am not a coffee drinker. But I've found that a mid-afternoon ice-cold diet beverage significantly improves the second half of my day.