deeples

Bad icecream flavor? ~ Channeling Pat ~ Bunnytown

April9

Bad icecream flavor

Jules and I are leaving our team meeting in the cafeteria and as we round the corner we run into 2 people leading what appears to be a large, walking pint of icecream.  Maybe lemon sherbet.  Or French Vanilla.  This large pint of icecream is waving at us and stomping around the cafeteria with fuzzy blue legs and floppy, oversized blue feet and blue lid.   We laugh… How about that?  Wasn’t expecting that!…we say to each other.

Then, it dawns on me why this waving, floppy, walking icecream looks familiar.

pee cup

We ponder what one would put on one’s resume for that job…

Professional Urine Cup, Esquire.

Channeling Pat

Me:  Jules?! *yelling over the cube wall* 

Julie:  Yeah?

Me: What do you call those….  sports… costume people? 

*silence*

Me:  That run around and stuff?

Julie: Mascots?

Me:  That’s it.  Sorry, man. My brain froze.

Bunnytown

A conversation my best friend and I never thought we’d have…

*on my cell this morning*

Steph: Hey, what’s up?

Me: I LOVE BUNNYTOWN!

Steph: You do?  I didn’t think you knew of Bunnytown!

Me:  I do!  We love it!

Steph:  It’s a Bunnytown life.

Me: No kidding.

BunnyTown

Easter ~ My Mom ~ Funny door

March23

Easter

Or as my friend Richard calls it, “DROJ Day”. As in, “What are you up to on DROJ Day?”…. and I was all, “WHA?”

He emailed me back, “Oh, sorry! Death and resurrection of Jesus Day” and I was all, “Ohhhh.  Brunch with the fam.”

Except, that of course it’s actually breakfast, church, talking, baskets and then brunch, all of which has ranged from palatable to fun in the past.  I have, however, had something of a falling out with Kory’s family’s church.  I won’t go into the gory details, but it was a disagreement of epic proportions and while we’ve all agreed that we love one another and are forgiving one another and moving on, there is still a noticeable chasm.  A tiny break, but now an area of weakness that will need to be handled gently and with great care so as to not reopen the wound.  It’s for this reason that I considered very seriously going to the Easter service tomorrow morning.

Except….  that the hypocrisy of me attending this service is just a little more than I can handle right now.  I feel like hyperventilating just thinking about going to a service at their church.  I know I will feel awkward and uncomfortable and I’m practically incapable of hiding such feelings from others – which will only serve to upset me and everyone around me. Bottom line is that while I was married in that church, I am not a member.  I don’t mind if Kory wants to go and bring The Baby or if The Teen wants to join them. I don’t mind a bit.  I, however, am going to stay home and drink coffee and read the Sunday paper and breathe deeply.

Personally, I’m ready for the 4th of July.

My Mom

My lovely mother, who raised my sister and I on her own, turned 60 last Saturday.  She’s living in Tucson, AZ with my grandmother and has created a nice life for herself. She’s working on a hundred different projects, has made a bunch of new friends, has been offered a promotion at work, has almost completed the course-work to start a whole new career, has lost something like 60 pounds… I mean, she’s doing GREAT.

And I, being the fabulous human being that I am did not call her on her birthday.  I also forgot to get a card in the mail. ON HER 60TH BIRTHDAY.

I had a small pass in that I was in Lutsen on her actual birthday and there is little to no reception up there. When we got back we found that The Baby’s rash had not only horribly intensified, but was now accompanied by a 3 day long series of high fevers that made her clingy and hot and unable to sleep at night.  Work, also, was a nuclear meltdown. My workload was piling up due to missed days with Sicky McBaby and the trip and several critical partnering relationships had imploded while I was gone… so I came back to a whirlwind of work insanity, sick baby, The Teen started a new trimester and had all new classes, new teachers, a zillion forms to sign…  all of this is my way of saying… by Friday, I STILL HAD NOT CALLED HER.

Now, of course, it was far more than just being distracted and torn in a million directions, now I was actively terrified to call her.  Consumed with guilt and fearing the tongue-lashing of the century from a justifiably shattered mother, I somehow found an amazing array of things to do instead of calling my mother.  This is not unlike my sophomore year in high school when, overwhelmed, I ditched my Chemistry class on a major test day… and then, not having a note and afraid to say so to the teacher, I ditched the next day… which became me sitting in the library at school every single day for an entire semester until the final weighty F arrived on my report card.   When asked why I didn’t just go back, I couldn’t answer.  I don’t know.  I was afraid.  I don’t know.  Facing the music isn’t my strong suit?  Failing sucks?  Disappointing people that I love and/or respect makes me want to vomit on my feet?

So, Friday afternoon I got an email from my mother.  Subject: Are you ok????

Am I ok?

My mind races. I don’t want to open this email. It’s going to be bad.  Am I ok?!

She’s so flummoxed by the horridness of someone who wouldn’t call their mother even days and days after her 60th birthday, she’s now decided something must be wrong with me.  Clearly, I’ve been abducted or become a Communist.. or been abducted by Communists…

I brace myself and open the email and it’s like this [paraphrased]: Hi! Hope you are ok and had a fun trip and blah blah.. I’m fine and work is good and I hope The Baby and The Teen are good and I really would like to hear your voice and I hope you aren’t mad at me for something because I love you, etc………………..

I think I passed out at my desk – I mean, WHO SAW THAT COMING?

Not me, that’s who.

So, seeing this amazing opportunity to swoop in and mend the fence, I promptly find a thousand other things to do. Again. Surely, this is a trap.  Surely, when I actually do call it will end with me a sobbing, snot-faced mess.  And I just can’t tell you how not up to that I am right now.

So, today, she emails me again.  Firmer.

Honey, call me. I need to hear your voice.  We all make mistakes, etc.etc.  Let’s start over. Etc. Etc.  Call me. Call me. Call me.

So, I make a few excuses.  Make myself a couple cocktails and finally… finally…. I call her.

And we laughed and told each other stories and caught up and laughed some more for an hour.

The only reference to the whole drama was simply this:

me:  Mom, I love you and I’m so so sorry

Mom:  I know you are, honey.  I know you are.

I’ve been so busy being everyone else’s mom, I forgotten how much they rule.  Moms, that is.

Mine, specifically.

Funny Door

This door in clearly not in Minnesota or it would have said, “ALRIGHTY” instead of “ALRIGHT”

posted under Triple play | 2 Comments »

Bark lips ~ Hasslenut Latte ~ Left Boob

March10

Bark Lips

I know I pick my lips like other people chew their nails or jingle their change.  I’m not sure when it went from being a strange diversion to being a FULL TIME JOB, but there it is.  It drives my coworkers crazy because I tend to do it more when I am stressed, thinking hard about something or irratable (all commonplace at work).   What can I say? I’m a peeler.  It’s the best thing about sunburn! Or finding a dried schmear of applesauce glued to my arm by a certain baby I know! There is just something so satisfying about peeling a big sheet of something off in one piece.  It’s ok to be revolted.  I understand.  You can dry-heave a little while you read this.  I know it’s not for everyone.   I’ll try not to judge your eccentricities, either.  You people who cut their toenails and put them in a can.  You people who put grape jelly on your sausage breakfast sandwhich.  Yeah, YOU.

So, I’ve been peeling my lips forever and they’ve become almost super-human in their regenerative powers.   Until now.

Something happened to them this weekend.  I can only assume that I went all “Archuleta” and went on a slobbering, lip-licking spree of epic proportions, all while in a amnesic fugue-state.  Hopefully during said fugue-state I didn’t do anything equally disturbing like apply for credit cards, wash my reds with whites or eat sticks of buttereat sticks of butter.  

They are almost… burnt.  They are red and shreddy and bark-like.  They are angry, sad lips.

Fortunately for me, I’m not that easily deterred and a pair of tweezers and a 5x magnifying lighted mirror can dramatically reduce scowling, puffy bark lips.  I know.. I know… I’m just so sexy.

Hasslenut Latte

So, it’s free “Moose It!” (extra espresso shot) day at Caribou Coffee.  A clever marketing campaign aimed at the fact that Daylight Savings sucks ass and wreaks havoc with babies’ schedules.  Today, they feel, everyone needs another shot of espresso in their latte. FREE ESPRESSO.  I’m there.

I have a Caribou card that I like to keep money on in the event that I am dead broke and still need a $5.00 espresso drink, because a girl’s gotta have priorties.  I’ve had issues in the past getting the card reloaded with dough, which I find SO ANNOYING I WANT TO SCREAM through my frothy skim milk.  The card is supposed to make my life more convenient and happy and it does, if I don’t have to put more money on it.  If I was rich I could just put like a grand on there and have months of carefree lattes.  This is exactly why I hate not being rich. It’s just so damned inconvenient.

Me:  Hi. I’d like a Northern Lights skim latte with hazelnut, moosed, and only half the syrup.  I also want to reload my card.

Coffee Girl:  Okaaaay. 

Me:  I think you have to load the card first and then do the coffee.

Coffee Girl: *frank stare of astonishment and irritation*  You want me to do the card BEFORE the coffee?

Me:  Well, just the ringing part.  I’ve had problems in the past, so I’m just trying to help.

Coffee Girl: So, you want to put money on the card and use that same money to buy your drink TODAY?

(Ok, what is so strange about this? Really. I want to know.)

Me: That’s the plan.

Coffee Girl:  But, I already rang in the drink.

Me: Ok, then add on the $20 on my Caribou card.

Coffee Girl: Oh, that has to be done separately.

Me:  Ok.  Do you see where I was going with the whole, “I think you have to ring it first” thing, before?

Coffee Girl:  Ohhhhh. I see.  Well, we can do it separately.

Me: You know, I’d rather not run the card again.  I’ll just do it another time. What should I say the next time I’m in here to make myself better understood about this card?

Coffee Girl: Just tell them it has to be rung first.

Me:  *just stares at the coffee girl*  So, tell them what I told you.

Coffee Girl:  Sorry.  Daylight Savings and all…   (as guy making my coffee mouths “Sorry” at me)

Left Boob

The last time I dyed my hair, I got a blob of hair die on my favorite bra.  It’s dark brown and about the size of a small plastic penguin.  Now that I am here at work, under the fluorescent lights… I realize that both the dark brown blob AND my tattoo are visible through my yellow sweater.   Thus, causing everyone to stare at my left boob today.

If only I had Phoebe’s giant corsage to cover it.

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