Springtime Meets the Couch of Death

Wednesday, April 30, 2008 at 9:38 pm (Cat Obsession, Let's Get Personal, Photos)
Tags: , , , , , ,

It has come to my attention that I am now allergic to our couch. This is not wholly unexpected. Spring is in the air, which means if you look at me wrong, I sneeze. With pollens already irritating my sensitivities, it doesn’t take much for anything else to send me over the edge into a reaction — in this case, a couch I purchased for fifty bucks from my ex-boyfriend’s ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend (really) twelve years ago when she moved to another apartment and didn’t want to take it with her. In addition to a fold-out bed so treacherous it could mangle the strongest back, it houses an assortment of writing implements, several handfuls of change, and enough fur to make a full-grown cat.

Adding another allergen to my repertoire was not one of my goals for this year, no matter how worthy the specimen may be. To be honest, I’m still trying to get used to having allergies in the first place. Thanks to good luck in the lottery we call genetics, penicillin, strawberries, bees, and even poison ivy have never given me so much as a rash, sneeze, cough, or itch.

And then by chance I moved to the desert — the climate that physicians in Ohio (where I grew up) recommended for those sensitive to pollens and the like. Now I gleefully spend every spring sneezing. Which is where the couch comes in (again). When springtime rolls around, and the pollens are at their worst, something in or on the couch, knowing that I am temporarily weak, joins in and gives me hives. Since my husband’s not moving back east, and I won’t move without him, the couch has to be the one to go, because I can handle spring in the desert or I can handle ancient upholstery, but it turns out that I can’t handle both.

This is not a decision to be made lightly, however. I’ve had my sofa over a third of my life — longer than I’ve owned any item of clothing, three times longer than my husband and I have been married, and twenty-four times longer than I’ve had my car. Shabbiness and reaction-inducing upholstery aside, there are some serious attachment issues here. Which means I must a) learn to hate the thing so much I must be rid of it or b) find a replacement I like even better. Since the latter has turned out to be nigh unto impossible, it looks like I’m fully relying on choice number one. Once the Couch of Death (See? I’m trying.) is properly vilified in my mind, maybe it will be easier to send it to the great furniture warehouse in the sky and invite a younger, prettier model into our family room. I’ll even try not to feel too guilty about it, but I’m making no guarantees.

Couch of Death + Minion
Closeup: Couch of Death + Minion (for scale)
Click on photo for enlarged villainy. It’s probably worth it.

42 Comments

Surprise!

Saturday, April 26, 2008 at 1:18 pm (I Have Fun Sometimes, Let's Get Personal, Photos)
Tags: , , , , , ,

I am in love with my tulips. It was a pre-meditated emotion, although I never expected it to be so strong. Last fall I loaded up a new audio book on my iPod, dumped three hundred dried and ugly bulbs into a large bowl, stirred them, then stepped outside into the cold, windy October day. As the clouds spit occasional drops of rain at my neighborhood, I hacked at the chilled dirt around our house with an ancient trowel and carefully placed bulb after bulb into the loosened soil. This better be worth it, I thought as an icy drop of rain struck the back of my neck, followed immediately by a gust of wind.

Later, after my aching muscles healed and the last lines of the story I’d been listening to faded away, I began to forget which types of plants I’d so carefully buried in the fall-caked soil. I did not try to keep this information, but let it drift along on the same rivers of forgetfulness that have carried away far more important details — friends’ birthdays, state capitals, the proper spelling of hors d’ovouers. ( <– This is not it.)

All winter I eyed the patches of dirt, waiting for signs of stirring. A few days ago we finally had foliage. And today we have these:

I knew I had tulips, but I did not know they would so far surpass the ordinary varietals. They are flanked by grape hyacinths and other purple flowers whose name I’m certain I’ve never known. Other greenery has begun to emerge from the ground all around them. They will soon bear their own flowers, and I will be surprised all over again.

I do so love spring. Especially when I plant ahead for it.

28 Comments

All Assembly Required

Friday, April 18, 2008 at 5:30 pm (If I Were the Queen, Let's Get Personal, Photos, Writing & Reading)
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

There are three things you should know about my day:

1) It’s Friday.

2) I got to go into work late.

3) While at work, I had to assemble a piece of furniture.

The first is universal, the second is lucky, and the third is capable of canceling out the pleasure of the other two. Oh, the project started out just fine, as all bad ideas do. I sliced open the box, pulled everything out, and got cozy on the floor with all the necessary ingredients: a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, and the recently unboxed parts — including the deceptively labeled ‘Assembly Instructions’. Which is where the project hit the skids. Because as it turns out a job illustrating for this particular company does not require an actual working knowledge of basic drawing skills. My friend Christa has freshman art students who can draw better diagrams than these. Let’s take the ‘cord management system’, for example. Despite the fancy name, which must have required at least mild ingenuity on the part of the writers, the illustrators did not deem it necessary to actually label it on the assembly diagram, which is just not fair. This left me to guess, and guessing + me + hardware = trouble. Which is why it took me over an hour and assistance from a friend with an honest-to-God engineering degree to finally get the thing fully built. Even he was bemused by a few of the directives, so I finally ended up skipping several of the more confusing ones. So far the cart is still standing and the world hasn’t crashed to a halt, so I think I’m safe.

Okay, I know I’ve been known to hyperbolize on occasion and I sense that you think I’m doing so now, but I assure you I’m not. And so, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve scanned step one. There are seven more where that came from, but I think this one gets the point across nicely. Just click on the photo if you’d like a larger version. It still won’t make sense, but at least you can say you tried. You can even attempt to find where the elusive ‘cord management system’ is if you’re feeling ambitious.

The good news is that sharing this with you has cheered me up considerably. Indeed, now that I’ve begun to move past the irritation-at-self-and-others stage of this trauma and the cart is fully assembled, I have started to develop a little affection for these instructions — even if the illustrators did cheat. I can even appreciate the fact that no one was injured during the cart-building process.

This will never be my favorite company communique, however, despite its total lack of sense. No, that honor is reserved for the single sheet my husband pulled from a box before assembling the simple wooden magazine rack contained within. The page has resided on our refrigerator ever since:

34 Comments

Ouch

Sunday, April 13, 2008 at 8:24 pm (Let's Get Personal)
Tags: , , , , ,

Yesterday I managed once again to be on the receiving end of a wound of unknown origin. Random injuries are a daily thing for me. If I haven’t successfully hurt myself, broken something, or stained a piece of clothing, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. I am currently in possession of the aforementioned cut (a scratch embedded in the fleshy part of my palm, rendering the comfort of Bandaids impractical), as well as at least four others. I won’t catalogue them for you (because who wants to read a list of cuts, bangs, bruises, and abrasions?), but in the interest of full disclosure I’ll admit that two shirts have also been harmed in the making of this weekend: one last night, splattered by spaghetti sauce (another good reason I don’t often cook) and the second this morning, dipped into my peanut butter toast breakfast.

I’ve resigned myself to this fate and I can’t say it even bothers me all that much, once the initial pain and throbbing reminders are doused by time, medicine, or — in the case of the stained clothing — laundry detergent. There are even a few advantages to a life of accident pronness. (Another thing I’m prone to doing: creating new words.) For one thing, there’s hope that my minor daily pains are a hedge against occasional catastrophic ones. This may be flawed logic — after all, one of my first actions upon this Earth was to undergo open-heart surgery — but I’m optimistic. Other advantages include the bonding that occurs when swapping tales of injuries past, and ever-increasing background knowledge for my writing. Flimsy, yes. But they’re all I’ve got, and since I’ve had this penchant for accidental pain for over thirty years, I’ve learned to appreciate the good points and try not to wonder about tomorrow.

31 Comments

How to Use a “Resealable” Bag

Sunday, April 6, 2008 at 3:14 pm (If I Were the Queen, To Whom it May Concern)
Tags: , , , ,

Oh, dear. You’ve really done it, haven’t you? You just fell prey to one of consumerism’s biggest myths — the resealable bag — and now you’re staring at your new purchase, wondering how to get the thing open. What was it? Cheese? Cereal? Doggie treats? Come on, you can confide in me.

Well, no matter what it was, let me tell you a little secret. You are not alone. Those so-called easy-open/easy-close bags? Yeah. They aren’t. And the directions? Ignore them; they encompass only a fraction of the steps you’ll have to take in order to use your product. But I’ll tell you what. I like you, I really do. And so I’ll give you a hand. I’ve been duped, too, after all. I understand. And so, for your tutelage, I will provide sample package directions, followed by the actual steps for opening, and then closing, such bags. Advanced users may wish to skip to steps seven and ten, respectively. Oh, and one more thing, from me to you: next time don’t believe the hype. Okay? No more buying products just because of the package’s ingenious engineering.

What the directions say:

  1. To open bag, tear along dotted line.

What the directions mean:

  1. Search in vain for mythological pre-torn notch said to enhance tearing power.
  2. Give up. Use force in attempt to create notch.
  3. Bandage bleeding finger.
  4. Attempt to break into bag with teeth.
  5. Make appointment with dentist to have chipped tooth repaired.
  6. Study bag, looking once more for notorious notch or tear strip. NOTE: The red dashed line along the top is not a clue. It is only there to taunt you.
  7. Use scissors.
  8. Pull bag open.
  9. Perform victory dance.

What the directions say:

  1. To seal bag, press closed.

What the directions mean:

  1. Clear seal strip of any obstructions, such as product residue, fingers, and air.
  2. Line up both sides of strip.
  3. Press strip closed.
  4. Tug package opening gently to ensure that seal worked.
  5. Repeat steps 1-4
  6. Vow not to let a simple plastic bag defeat you.
  7. Line up both sides of strip.
  8. In surge of pragmatism (or is it despair?) press along just two inches of strip, so you haven’t wasted energy when seal continues not to function.
  9. Test to ensure seal.*
  10. Give up and tape, staple, or clothespin the @&*% thing closed.

*In the unlikely event that the seal works on the smaller section, continue as follows: Finish pressing along strip. Test seal. Realize you forgot to squeeze out all the air. Attempt to open only a small section of strip. Fail. Pick up spilled cheese, cereal, dog treats, etc. Discard. Squeeze air out of bag and begin again from step one above. Repeat as necessary until bag is sealed. NOTE: You may wish to simply skip to step ten.

38 Comments

If You Insist…

Thursday, April 3, 2008 at 5:11 pm (Internetting)
Tags: , , , , ,

Blogging memes are like recommendation letters: I’m flattered when someone asks me to write one, but the execution of said assignment is usually more difficult — and often more tedious — than it at first seems. Which is why I never do them. Memes, at least. I’ll still write a recommendation letter, and take a horrifying amount of time making sure that every phrase is perfect and every comma is in its proper position. If you don’t get the job or the college admission, I’d rather not have that on my conscience. A meme, though? I usually just read everybody else’s answers and hope the person who assigned it soon forgets that they tagged me. If I can’t make it interesting, I don’t address it.

Because of this I’ve gained a reputation for lack of follow-through when it comes to blogging memes and email forwards. My friend Katie recently sent around an internet questionnaire in which she answered the question “Which of the recipients of this message is least likely to pass it on?” with, of course, my name. And she was right, because while I read all her answers and even intended to answer them, I never actually brought myself to follow the rules and send it on. Soon it was buried under all the new fodder in my inbox — and, until this very moment, it was buried in my memory, too. (Sorry, Katie.)

This is why when my friend Natalie tagged me for the meme in which I describe my life in six words, it’s no surprise that I vowed to do it and then promptly (almost) forgot about it. But when thoughts of it floated into my mind this afternoon as I was driving home from work, and I realized that the following sentence had exactly six words, I knew I had to follow through. It was too easy not to. Plus, I also don’t like to break promises, even though I knew Natalie was too nice to keep score. So here you go. My life in six words:

Memes and forwards end with me.

And, yes, for such a short meme, I managed to write a lot of words about it. But my task is officially almost over. I’ve done it. And if I can, you can, too. If you’re lucky, maybe you already have. And if you’re unlucky, you’re one of the following people, and have now been given the task of defining your life in six or fewer words: Katie (it’s only fair), Robin, Christa, Emily, Mel. If I didn’t tag you, it’s not because I don’t love you. I do. But I had to stop before I got tag-happy.

Okay, go to it, ladies! If you want. After all, who am I to retaliate if you don’t? Here are the guidelines:

1. Write your own six-word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play. (This last step is optional.)

By the way, if you enjoy six-word memoirs, you check out the book Not Quite What I Had in Mind. It’s a collection of six-word memoirs by some famous — and some not-so-famous — people. I haven’t read it yet, but it sounds intriguing.

13 Comments

  • a

  • Archives

  • Today's Top Posts

  • Recent Comments

    On the Book Lady… on This Is My Blog on SoCNoC
    Recent Faves Tagged … on Strong Women, Intrigue, and Gr…
    Caryn Caldwell on Where do these people come…
    pamwritesromance on Where do these people come…
    Cam on Where do these people come…
    LaDonna on Where do these people come…
    alyson noel on Spreading the Blog Love
    David Rice on Spreading the Blog Love

  • RSS Feed Subscriptions

    Subscribe in Bloglines

    Add to Pageflakes

    Subscribe in NewsGator Online

  • Site Search