I don't want to multi-task all the time.

I've discovered that I can't sit and watch a movie or TV anymore without doing something while watching.

I used to be the one who had no trouble turning my brain off while turning on the TV. I could sit and watch without needing to also do something to entertain myself. But now I have to be doing something while watching. Googling, cleaning, working, painting my toenails, painting other stuff, folding laundry. Whatever.

What does this mean?

Maybe my standard operating procedure has become multi-tasking because I have a lot to do while still trying to cram in as much TV as possible.

Even now I am blogging while watching a movie.

I seem to now be satisfied with getthing the gist of a show or movie, rather than needing to pay attention to every little detail. Of course, sometimes that results in me missing key parts of the story, which makes me confused later on in the movie.

And then, well, I just start Googling to figure out what I missed. Or to IMDB random stuff about the movie.

I miss when I didn't have to have constant activity. I like not thinking or doing sometimes.

C.T.

You know you're tired when . . .

. . . you fall asleep on your couch while Hannibal is on your TV, then LOUD fireworks go off at the stadium nearby and it doesn't even phase you to wake up to see that it's now dark outside and Hannibal is still on your screen doing something disgusting to someone.

When did Jodie Foster turn into Julianne Moore?

C.T.

It was craptacular, y'all.

You have to get up earlier than 6:45am on a Saturday to put one over on us, I'll tell you that right now.

I've done a few garage sales in my day, and here are some things that I have learned. I saw these things again today during the garage sale with my folks.




See? Nothing gets by them, either.

1. "I only have $10. Will you take $10 for this?"
This is a trick.

Today a woman said she only had $10 for my lamp. It was marked $15. Then she went to her car to get her money, and she paid me with a $20 bill.

Now, if you are going to try and convince me that you only have $10 and you are asking me to come down on the price of a fantastic lamp BECAUSE you only have $10, don't pay me with a $20 bill.

20 is more than 10. Der.

2. "I don't speak English."
This is also a trick.

If you can tell me that you don't speak English, then argue with me to take one dollar for a four dollar item, the issue here is not that you don't speak English.

3. "This is broken. You take one dollar for it?"
Again, a trick.

Something that is marked as four dollars is marked as four dollars for a reason. I have developed a scienticially and emotionally based pricing structure over the years.

Plus, I found stickers that already have prices on them. I like to make sure every sticker, no matter the price, goes on something. It's kind of like a Price is Right pricing game. I have the prices on stickers, and I have to find the items of crap in my house that fit those prices.

But, if you are trying to talk me down from four dollars to one dollar, telling me that the object in question is broken is not going to work.

If it is broken, why are you still willing to pay even one dollar for it? Why not put it down and walk away? You know, since it's broken and all.

Der.

4. The old "pile of change and run" trick
Much like it says in the name, this is a trick, too.

It can also involve #2 above.

This is when you hold a pile of stuff, count out all of the change in your purse then dump it in my hand and walk away before I can add up the stuff you are holding OR the pile of change you just dumped in my hands.

I hate coins.

5. The tag switch
One of the trickier tricks.

It's hard to watch everything that goes on during a busy garage sale, but sometimes we caught that a low-dollar sticker was mysteriously on something that should not have had such a low price on it. And then later we would see a ridiculously over-priced item that was mysteriously probably priced at what an expensive item should have been priced earlier in the day.

While people may think they are putting one over on us, what they don't realize is that while they got a steal by paying only two dollars for a four dollar jacket, someone later in the day will pay four dollars for what should have been a two dollar shirt.

We get our money anyway. Even though you saved a dollar. Good job.

6. Send in the kids to negotiate trick
This isn't so much of a trick as it is just exploiting the youth of the world.

Sending your small child over with instructions to hold out a dollar and whine-ingly ask if I will take a dollar for something marked two dollars is both manipulative and, well, lame.

And I have no problem saying no to your child.

As per every garage sale, there was one item that people kept picking up to look at, but no one ever bought it. Today, it was the squeaky hamburger.



It squeaks when you squeeze it. My dad and I eventually played a game of Squeaky Hamburger Softball with it and a golf club.

I won.

That official accounting firm that they use for the Oscars and stuff is calculating how much money I made from refusing to sell things for a dollar. But I think it's somewhere around a million dollars. You know, if I had to guess.

I'm just glad that my house is a bit less craptacular. And if you need me tomorrow, don't.

I am in hiding until I have to go to work on Monday.

C.T.

P.S. Worst garage sale helpers, EVER. But still cute.

Garage Sale Eve

Oh my goodness. I'm so tired of junk. There is junk everywhere and I don't know where it came from or how it got here, but tomorrow it all goes away.

Tonight I loaded up the rest of my junk to take over to my parents' house to put with their junk for our garage sale tomorrow.

But first, we needed to carbo-load at Luby's. Did you know that senior citizens only get a senior discount at Luby's on Tuesday nights?

That's insane!

Um, is Luby's not aware that the average age of everyone in their restaurant on any given night of the week is 71? And it's probably the same 71-year-olds every night. Why not give them a discount every night? You know they only eat half of their meals anyway, then wrap up the other half in a napkin and tuck it in their purses for breakfast tomorrow morning . . . which they don't actually eat the next morning because they forget about it.

You realize that old people's purses are full of half-eaten sandwiches and other dinner scraps, right? It's true.

Anyway, there's a lot of junk in my folks's house right now. My junk plus their junk.

It's craptacular, to be quite honest.

Everything is priced and ready for tomorrow. Plus, I blew up balloons. My mom made me do it.

We discovered that the puppies are afraid of balloons.

I hate garage sales.

C.T.

Cute as a button

I got that phrase stuck in my head today. I don't know why. Sometimes random stuff just gets stuck in my head.

But I have to ask this question: What does that even mean?

I don't really think of buttons as being all that cute. I mean, I guess I like buttons. Who doesn't like buttons? I never really think about buttons . . . until they fall off of my pants or something. And then I'm not real fond of that particular button.

But not all buttons worldwide. I will concede that buttons are a good thing.

But why "buttons"? Why not . . . a zipper, or cute as a thimble, or a pillow, or a spoon?

I'd say spoons are probably the cute-est of all flatware.

So that brings me back to my original question. Are buttons really cute?

I mean, the buttons I have don't really stand out. They just hold up my pants, or close my shirt. I don't even notice them . . . again, unless they are missing.

I guess I'd dislike a particularly ugly button. But normal, everyday buttons just don't really phase me one way or another.

So if buttons aren't so much necessarily actually "cute", where do we get this phrase "cute as a button?"

Is that even a compliment? Like if I tell you you are cute as a button, am I literally describing your cuteness as the equivilent of the cuteness contained in one button?

I'd say that's not really all that much cuteness. Buttons are small. If I tell you that you are cute, I probably sense a larger amount of cuteness coming from you than what could be contained in one small button.

So that would make it almost an insult, wouldn't it? If you are "just as cute as a button", I've just told you that there are a lot of things out there in the world much larger than a button that you are not as cute as. Your cuteness is confined to the size of a tiny, possibly non-ugly button.

In fact, if you were as cute as a house, or a mountain, or a planet, that would really be something special. That's a LOT of cuteness.

So essentially, if I tell you you are cute as a button, you can assume that you are probably ugly.

C.T.

Dancing Sandwich

I remembered what my blog from yesterday was going to be. I saw the subject of it on the way home again tonight.

It might not be as funny as I said it was going to be. I don't really know. I'm not very funny this week.

I'm not even sure who or where I am this week. Brain is on overload.

So there's apparently a new Subway on my way home. And the reason I know this is because they've got a dancing sandwich out on the corner, dancing and waving at cars that drive by. NOT because I saw a sign or could even find the Subway.

I had to look for it after I was distracted from my driving by the obnoxious dancing sandwich.

Now, I don't like Subway (does anyone else notice that ALL Subways smell weird . . . in the exact same way? That's not good, right?). But I LOVE sandwiches (not as much as pizza, but sandwiches are up there on my list of food favorites). Consequently, Subway is not on my list of places that I tend to consider when I want a sandwich.

But if I wanted a sandwich today on my way home, is a dancing sandwich really the way to draw me in? To me it's just a psychotic sandwich jumping around on the sidewalk.

It doesn't make me hungry.
It's doesn't invite me in (I might get attacked by the crazy sandwich).
It doesn't put Subway any higher on my list as a reputable sandwich-making facility.

Taking the foods I like and making them dance for me does not make me want that food at all. In fact, I kinda like sandwiches a little less now that I've seen one dancing two days in a row.

And I kinda hate Subway a little more now that when I think of it, I just see the dancing sandwich and I am reminded that the dancing sandwich makes me like sandwiches less, which makes me sad because I really love sandwiches.

Damn you, Dancing Sandwich. You make me sad.

C.T.

I did it again

I wrote a blog in my head in the car on the way home from work, and now I can't remember it.

I sat here all night trying to remember it.

It was really funny. And also deeply wisdomly.

I think I might be losing my mind lately. Trying to cram too much stuff in it these days.

Maybe it's finally full.

C.T.

Totally got PROMOTED, y'all

Now that it's official, I can tell the world.

They gave me a new title at work, stuck "Senior" in front of it, gave me another raise, and more work to do . . . and that's what we call a promotion, y'all.

It's my first promotion ever. It's all very exciting.

I'm a little disappointed that they would not add "rockstar" to the end of my new title, nor did they respond positively to my list of demands that should come with my new role.

But it's nice to be valued, appreciated, recognized, and rewarded for hard work. And also, I'm sure, for being really, really, really ridiculously good-looking.

And I am very happy with the appreciation and the recognition. I will gladly take it. Not every work situation works out that well.

But don't think I will forget about my list of demands. Is it really too much to ask that I get a small pepperoni pizza from Campisis delivered to my desk Mon-Wed-Fri for lunch? I don't think so.

It's not an arbitrary request. Pizza improves my productivity. It's a direct pizza-to-performance correlation, where more pizza equals better productivity.

It's good for the company to provide me with pizza. I'm just sayin'.

Senior Rockstar,
C.T.

Building the perfect Neapolitan cone

At some point every summer, I buy a big tub of neapolitan ice cream and some cones. That time has come.

To build the perfect neapolitan cone is a delicate operation. It is an exercise in precision to balance each flavor at the appropriate time throughout the cone.

For me, the strawberry is the best, and therefore I take care to end each cone with strawberry as the last bite. But this means the strawberry has to go IN to the cone FIRST.

My least favorite is the chocolate part of the neapolitan threesome. In fact, I'm about ready for them to invent just a vanilla and strawberry combo, leaving out the chocolate all together.

They could call it just Neapol.

It's not that I hate the chocolate, it's just out of all three flavors, it's my least favorite. So, I start every neapolitan cone with chocolate. This means the chocolate has to go in LAST. At the top.

The vanilla then becomes the transition flavor. It's the buffer between the chocolate that is not my favorite, to the strawberry that I've been looking forward to all day.

It has taken much time and many trials and errors to figure out this combination and system for the perfect neapolitan cone. Fortunately, I'm working with ice cream. So it's pretty much win-win no matter what.

C.T.

Hakuna Matata, y'all

Which I think in some language means "put on a skirt and get fancy."

My mom decided that for her birthday (which is tomorrow) she wanted to see The Lion King. So, since my dad and I want to make my mom's every wish come true, today he brought her over to my house, we dusted off the Disney VHS, I fixed some ice cold waters with crushed ice from my new fridge, and we settled in to my couch for a white trash birthday party.

Nothing's too good for my mom.

Ok, that's not what we really did. What we really did is get fancy (I put on a skirt, y'all), and we took my mom to see the on-the-stage musical version of The Lion King.

She loved it.

The production of it is pretty amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I was so distracted by the production that I paid very little attention to the story. Good thing I've seen that Disney VHS or I would have had no idea what was going on.

Seriously, I sat there the whole time watching the animals and the actors IN the animals, trying to figure out how all of it works.

And also trying to figure out why there was naked, dancing grass.

For those of you who don't know, I obsess about figuring things out. I love trying to understand how things work or why things happen. Mostly because when I can't figure it out, I don't like that.

Like, "Ok, that guy's arm is hooked to that leopard's front leg, but how does the leopard's head move when both of the actor's arms are controlling the leopard's legs . . .

And the hyena's were completely baffling. Sometime's the actors were controlling the heads, but other times it's like the heads moved as though independent from the actor or his body. It was awesome.

So, while all of the kids in the audience are ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the silly voices and funny puppets/actors/costumes and the whole spectacle of the thing, and while the grownups are laughing at the jokes that only the grownups understand, I'm ooh-ing and aah-ing when I finally figured out that the leopard's head is somehow connected to the actor's head because when the actor moves his head, the leopard also moves his head.

Brilliant!

And so, my friends and fans, that is the circle of life.

C.T.

Thoughts on thumbtacks in a drawer

How come when you accidentally spill a box of thumbtacks in a drawer, they all land pointy side up?

Each and every one of them. Pointy side up.

Then when you try to pick them all back out of the drawer, you know you missed at least one.

And it will just be in the drawer . . . hiding somewhere . . . waiting for you to stick your hand back in there someday . . .

Pointy side up.

C.T.

Albino Cricket

I'm sure there's some sort of Rare Bug Society that I should call with this news, but I don't really run in those circles. So I don't really know if that actually exists or how to go about finding them.

So I'll just put the news here.

While I mowed my yard yesterday, I had a sighting of (what I can only assume is) the extremely rare Albino Cricket. I was mowing near the corner of my house when something jumped out of the grass at my face.

I quickly (in my head) ran through the list of woodland yard creatures that I know to exist in my yard, hoping that I hadn't just killed another one of them:

Rabbit? No.
Cat? Sadly . . . no.
Bird? Nope.
Legs the Frog? Thankfully, no.
Cricket-shaped? YES.

It was shaped like a cricket, and jumped like a cricket. And here in Texas, crickets are not so much "rare" as they are "abundant", "everywhere", and "annoying." So, I came to the conclusion that it was definitely a cricket.

But it was white.

Seriously, y'all. A WHITE cricket. Who has ever seen such a thing?

I have. Here in my yard.

I didn't get a photo, since I was mowing and didn't have my phone handy. And I might have mowed the cricket, but I can't really be sure. Crickets are hoppy and whatnot.

So I don't actually have any proof that I saw it. You'll have to take my word for it.

Anyway, just thought the world would want to know that I found an Albino Cricket. And in the off chance that they had not been discovered before I saw one yesterday, please be sure to give me credit for discovering this rare species of cricket.

Again. Hope I didn't mow it.

C.T.

Safety First: Ironing Pantsless

If you learn only one thing from me, learn this: When ironing the pants you are about to wear, in which case you are pantsless while ironing said pants, don't stand too close to the iron.

It smarts. And leaves a mark. In an undesireable location.

C.T.

Food tastes better coming out of the new fridge.

I'm just sayin'.

C.T.

I just had the best tacos I've ever had in my life.

Why, you might ask, are they the best tacos I've ever had in my life?

Because on my way home from work tonight, I went to the grocery store, where I bought everything in the store that was either cold and/or frozen, I brought it home, I arranged everything into my new fridge and freezer, and then I pulled back out of the fridge all of the ingredients to make tacos.

And then I made tacos. And then I ate them. And they were amazing.

And then I put the leftovers back into my fridge.

And I washed all of it down with crushed ice cubes and a Coke. This breaks my no caffeine after 4:00 rule, but it was a special occasion.

And in a few minutes, I will have ice cream. In a fun, colorful cone.

This scenario is amazing, in and of itself. But it also marks a turning point in my life. You see, I HATE grocery shopping. Mostly because I HATE grocery stores.

Case in point, as I grocery shopped tonight, a man stood in the middle of an aisle in the grocery store, yelling at the top of his lungs, "CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE NEEDED ON AISLE EIGHT!! I SAID . . . I NEED CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE ON AISLE EIGHT!!!"

As you can imagine, many employees came running to provide this nice man with the assistance he so politely asked for.

Actually, he was still yelling when I left the store.

Anyway, back to my point. Which is . . . I was so excited to go grocery shopping tonight that I sat down and made an actual long list of groceries last night. Then today at work was like the longest day ever. And then I left work on time for the first time in awhile because I was so excited to get to the grocery store.

I think this whole emergency refrigerator purchase has taken me one step closer to actual grown-uphood. Which I continue to fight with every ounce of strength I have in my 30-something body, day in and day out.

But even better than being excited about the event of grocery shopping, I was even more excited to get everything home and arrange it into the fridge.

It was the most fun I've had all week. And that's because I'm just a little bit lame.

One thing I will never do again is stock up on frozen broccoli. I don't stock up on it on purpose, but I tend to forget I already have some and then when I see it at the store, I just pick up another bag and stuff it in the freezer. Pretty soon there are four or five bags of broccoli in there, and no room for anything else.

If you never learn anything from me but one thing, learn this: Once frozen broccoli starts to get even a little bit unfrozen, it is a smell that takes a very long time to go away. Imagine a few bags of that, completely thawed out, all in one place.

It is a horror I will not soon forget.

It's time for ice cream now.

C.T.

BEHOLD . . . The Refrigerator

It. Has. Arrived.

The Fridge is here. Behold it's greatness.



It is SO great, in fact, that it was impossible to capture well on film. The blur is its brilliance.

(Please ignore the kitchen surrounding the new fridge. The beauty of the new fridge now highlights the non-beauty of the surrounding kitchen. But I will have to wait awhile before I can buy a new kitchen to go with my new fridge. . . )

Also, behold the first two inhabitants of The Fridge.



Two of the most important things in the world: Green Tea and Coke.

Y'all, the fridge is already cold. It's only been here since 2:00. And the delivery guy said that after 12 hours, it starts making ice. Which means sometime during the middle of the night, I should be awakened by the sounds of ice cubes. . . a sound I haven't heard in months.

If you need me tonight, I will be making the longest grocery list EVER so I can put some food all up in my new fridge tomorrow.

If you would like to come meet the new fridge, visitors are welcome. If you would like to bring something to put in the fridge, that is also welcome.

It's been a big few days for The Tyrant, y'all. It's kinda like she won the lottery AND an Oscar this week. And it's not just all about the fridge, either.

But for now, I'd like to thank Freebirds, Whataburger, Souper Salad, China Express, and Cupcake for feeding me during this fridge-less time in my life . . . without which I surely would have starved to death at some point during the past week and a half.

C.T.

Refrigerator Eve

The new refrigerator draws nigh. In less than 24 hours I will have a shiny new fridge.

24 hours after that, it will be cold enough to put food all up in it.

I am so excited, I had a nightmare about it last night. I dreamed that just as my new fridge arrived (which was a whole lot fancier than the one I actually bought, incidentally), my OLD fridge suddenly started working again.

So then I was like, "Hmmm, maybe I don't need the new fridge after all . . ."

But then I talked myself back into the new fridge (since it was already at my house) because I knew that that five minutes later, the old fridge would probably stop working again.

So then I had the new fridge, but I was still using my Brita. Which is just CRAZY because my new fridge spits water out of the front at any given time that I demand it. Because that's the way I roll, now.

I do not get water from the fridge. The fridge gets it for ME.

So then I was mad at myself (still in the dream) that I was using the Brita while I had perfectly good fridge water at my beck and call. It was all very traumatic.

When I woke up, I was thirsty. And a little frightened.

I hope the delivery goes smoothly tomorrow. It's almost like a present is being delivered. It's been over a week since I bought it, so I've almost forgotten how much I paid for my shiny new toy.

Almost . . .

Water On Demand, y'all. Check it.

C.T.

Also . . .

. . . that creepy cat doesn't have a tail.

I think it might be a chupacabra.

C.T.

I'm buggin' out! I'm buggin' OUT!

And . . . scene. From the now-Emmy-award-winning show 30 Rock from the episode when Tracy goes on Conan.

Ok, this whole not-having-a-working-fridge thing has finally gotten to me.

I don't have ice.

I don't have cold beverages.

I have to plan ahead for food since I have to go out and get one meal at a time, and I've already exhausted all of the three places I care to get take-out from. I just don't eat out that much. I don't do fast food that often. I'm kinda over it.

I'll even go so far as to say . . . I miss cooking. There, I said it. Sure, I pretty much just heat stuff up, or make pasta, or a casserole. But it's the freedom of having that option that I miss. I want to be able to go to my fridge at any time and find leftovers.

I need cheese. I have no cheese. More important, I have no string cheese.

I have no ice cream.

I have no cream. For my coffee. I couldn't even make my fantastic coffee this morning for my Sunday morning coffee and newspaper ritual. I had to go to Starbucks. AGAIN.

I'm over Starbucks. And I'm over paying $4 for a latte that doesn't taste as good as my Costa Rican coffee.

I miss Big Salad. That's all I want for the next couple of days is salad. But I have no place to keep salad.

I don't have fig preserves. I lost an almost full jar of figs due to the warmness of the fridge. This pains me greatly.

I have no salsa for my chips. I just ate plain corn chips, for lack of anything else in the house to eat. I also drank warm green tea.

I can't make anything that requires anything on or in it. I can make toast, as long as I'm cool with eating it plain and washing it down with some tepid water.

I have no juice.

I have no Hot Pockets.

4 more days until I have a cold fridge that I can put food in.

Dammit.

C.T.

Emmy blogs

I just want to say to all of the "live Emmy blogs" out there that I invented blogging through awards shows, like, years ago. Back when I invented blogging.

So now that everybody else is doing it, I feel a bit like the magic is gone from my craft. Although the stuff going on in my head as I watch the Emmys right now is way funnier than anything else I'm reading in these blogs right now.

Way funnier.

I only wish I had invented getting paid for it years ago, too.

C.T.

P.S. Sally Field's son clearly has no idea what Roots is. He only recognizes that one guy from Reading Rainbow.

I'm just trying to watch the Emmys in peace.

But that cat is staring at me through my back door again.

It's just so creepy.

Maybe if I stay completely still all night, he will bore of me and go freak out the neighbors instead.

C.T.

This never happens anymore.

Today I didn't roll out of bed until 9:45, then later I had a nap on the couch.

I haven't been this relaxed in a long time.

I don't even care that I didn't mow my yard this weekend.

I also don't care that I didn't get nominated for an Emmy this weekend, either.

Ok, I'm a little hurt. But I'll be ok.

C.T.

My Internal Compass

I have a nearly impecable sense of direction on a normal day in most places in entire world . . . except when driving around Ft. Lauderdale, FL.

Any time I am there, I have no idea where I am or how to get anywhere. I don't understand it.

I think it's because the ocean is on the wrong side. I'm more familiar with where the ocean is on the California side. It's on the left. In Florida, it's just all wrong.

In Colorado, I am never lost because the mountains are always on the left. Unless you are in them. Then things get a little tricky, but still manageable.

And anywhere else, give me a few minutes and a map and I can find my way around just fine.

But Ft. Lauderdale is like the Bermuda Triangle for my internal compass. I'm a complete direction disaster.

It's embarrassing, really. I pride myself on being able to successfully navigate in any situation.

I have led people through cities where none of us reside, and I've even led people through cities where they reside but I don't. I've led groups of children through mountains in my younger days at camp. I even made up stories about Daniel Boone and bears along the way, just for fun. I've made my way through foreign countries where neither maps nor people speak english.

So . . . what is up, Ft. Lauderdale. Why must you torment me in this way?

One day . . . I will win in Ft. Lauderdale. Mark my words.

C.T.

Bagpipes

Today I went to the funeral/memorial service of a great man. I've been to more than a few funerals in my day, but this one was probably the biggest production I've ever been to for a memorial service. We had to get there an hour and a half early to make sure we would have a seat.

But even with the all of the production, and the massive church organ, and the full choir, and all of the well-knowns in attendance and who spoke, there was one simple part that I liked the best.

Bagpipes.

At the end of the service, the casket was rolled out of the church, and 30 or so pallbearers and the family walked out in procession with it. Leading the way was a single bagpipe player. The church was completely silent, except for the bagpipes.

It was surprisingly powerful.

I decided today that I want bagpipes at my funeral. Someone remember that when the time comes. I won't be there to remind you.

C.T.

This is not your home.

I make no secret of the fact that my house is not necessarily safe for animals. Again, the exhibits are:

Headless bird
Three-legged frog
Dead squirrel

Also, despite crafting a handicap ramp for our old family dog, she still fell off the edge every time she went in and out of my back door. Fortunately, this is not what killed her in the end.

Basically, if you are an animal and you choose to come on my land, you do so at your own risk. I am not trying to hurt you, but I make no special arrangments to keep you safe. This is not a Random Animal-Friendly Environment.

Unless you are the Puppies. Then I will make sure no harm comes to you. Because I like you.

I looked out in my backyard last night before taking out my trash, and something caught my eye. I opened the door and something started to run off, then it stopped.

It was a cat. A new cat. A cat I had not seen before. It stared me down as though it was challenging me to enter its yard.

It has been a year or so since the gang of annoying cats roamed my neighborhood, digging up my flowerbeds and pooping in my yard. It's been a nice, cat-free year.

I do not want another cat roaming around in my yard.

Tonight, I came home from work with my to-go Souper Salad (again, because I have NO FOOD in my house thanks to having a dead refrigerator in the house, and a new one not arriving until next week), I casually ate my dinner (um, it was the biggest salad EVER. The beauty of to-go Souper Salad is to pile on as much as will fit in that styrofoam container, and then not care later if you can't eat it all. It is a Souper buffet.), then I threw the rest of my dinner away (again, because I have no way of keeping leftovers...).

Then when I walked past my back door to close my curtains, that stupid cat was sitting RIGHT AT MY DOOR, staring in at me through the glass. A white cat peering inside from the dark of night is, I'm not going to lie, just a little bit creepy.

This is my response to all cats that wander into my yard: "This is not your home!"

I yelled this at the cat through my door, and it backed away just far enough so that it could still see me but with the defiance of not really leaving.

I hope it's not still out there. I think can feel his eyes boring into my soul through the door and the curtain.

C.T.

It's expensive to keep food cold.

But I am now the proud owner of this:



Of course, they can't get it to my house until next Wednesday. So . . . I have to figure out how to feed myself for the next week or so.

Maybe I should try fasting for the next 10 days.

How did the Pilgrims survive without refrigerators? Or maybe that's why we don't have Pilgrims anymore. They are extinct because there were no refrigerators, and they got tired of eating out or cooking everyday.

I can't cook anything because I can't save the leftovers. I do not understand life without cooking once a week, putting the leftovers in the fridge, then eating said leftovers for the rest of the week.

I can't even keep milk for cereal, or a frozen pizza.

I am reduced to a cooler on the kitchen floor, holding on to just a few things that I am trying to salvage. Namely Hot Pockets, most of which I took to work this morning.

Seriously, I go 31 years without any appliance purchases more major than a vaccuum cleaner. And then within the past month I've had to buy a dryer, and now a refrigerator.

What is UP?!?!? I mean, the pretty, new appliances are nice and all. But I'd be fine with it if they didn't all die at once.

Really. I would.

I hope the new fridge comes with food. It will be nice to look at, and to have cold water that spits out the front of it. That part is new and exciting for me.

But I'm not sure when I'll be able to afford food to put in it.

C.T.

Britney's . . . uh . . . back, y'all.

Oh dear.

Someone should tell her she's back, I guess. I think maybe she forgot that she was on to kick-off the VMAs tonight. I'm not sure she quite knew where she was. Or that people were watching.

Shoot. Put a bad weave on me, slap me in some bedazzled panties that are three sizes too small, and I could probably wander around and forget how to lip-sync, too.

In fact, I might have done that this morning already. Sure, I like to flaunt it when I'm horribly out of shape, too, y'all.

And I am.

Bedazzled panties.

C.T.

I have to eat everything in my fridge . . . tonight.

Turns out that my hope and dream to make my old lady fridge last longer than, um, today is not going to happen. It decided to slowly start not working anymore . . . yesterday.

According to the date stamped on the inside of the refrigerator, it is from 1990. So, almost 18 years old.

I made two trips to Sears today to research all of the fridges in the world. It has thoroughly stressed me out. I did not plan to buy a fridge, um, tomorrow.

I got so anxious about it today that I had to just walk away and leave it until tomorrow. It's not so easy as just going to get a new fridge. Turns out that there are very few fridges that will fit the small space in my house. I thought I had it all figured out and was about to make the purchase when the sales guy asked me if the height of the one I was looking at would fit in my kitchen.

Aren't all refrigerators the same height???

No. They are not. My kitchen can only handle a 66 incher. Most refrigerators are 69. I had to go home and measure AGAIN, and then I just gave up and had a warm Coke.

Stupid kitchen.

And I just bought a dryer last month.

And then I had a nail in my tire today, so I had to get that fixed.

And then I got badly bruised in a freak office furniture moving incident yesterday.

And today . . . I broke a nail. On my hand. (I don't care if the nail that was in my tire was broken)

After I eat my first round of all of the food in my fridge, I have to go buy ice to see if I can save the rest of it until I can get a new fridge in here.

I just cleaned that thing a few weeks ago. And this is the thanks I get.

Nothing else can break for at least a year. That's the new rule.

C.T.

Kudzu or Poison Ivy?

What do you think?

I found this behind my shed. And I've decided that I'm afraid of it.

So I doused it with about a gallon of Roundup.

Hopefully that makes whatever it is go away. Or else I might have to move before it takes over the entire yard, then my house.

C.T.

I am not too useless to almost kill my frog.

I came home today feeling useless and defensive. So I spent time mowing and cleaning up my yard to clear my head. But it took me awhile to figure out how to use my mower and that other weed-whacker thingie. You know, being useless and all.

Then I discovered that my new frog, Legs, had taken a vacation to the backyard, but he had not told me this ahead of time. As you know, the only rule I have for my friendship with my yard frogs is that they tell me when they are going on vacation so that when I come around with the weed-whacker, I don't accidentally whack off a leg. Or worse.

If I know where you are, I will not whack you.

So, as I uselessly weed-whacked in my backyard, I nearly whacked Legs. He jumped out of the way just in time, and that's when I saw him. He blended right in to the grass. And I almost killed him, or de-legged him, just like the other frog a couple of years ago.

But, it's really Legs's fault. I told him it wasn't my fault and that he should obey my rules. I cannot help it if he is going to put himself in the way of my useless weed-whacking.

It really is useless. The weeds and grass come right back again next week.

Is there ever a right answer to the question if someone asks you if you are defensive? To accept the accusation communicates that yes, you are defensive and they are right to accuse you of such. But to deny it as a wrong accusation in an attempt to defend yourself is, in fact, defensive.

Legs and I had this discussion today, after the near-whacking. It's a lose-lose question.

I need some pizza.

C.T.

I don't have to tell you that I'm gorgeous on the inside.

There's a house a few streets over from mine that is for sale. The For Sale sign in the yard says, "I'm gorgeous on the inside!"

I hate to break it to you, House That's Been For Sale For 6 Months. But telling me you are gorgeous on the inside actually tells me that you are most definitely ugly on the OUTSIDE.

In fact, I refuse to look at you as I drive past because all I can see is the sign on your outside that tells me your are gorgeous on the inside. So, I can't even bring myself to look at your outside, for fear you are hideous on the exterior even though you are trying to distract me from your outside by telling me that you are gorgeous inside.

I don't want to burn my retinas with the horror of your exterior.

The sign also tells me that you are probably actually, in all reality, ugly on the inside. But by trying to subliminally convince me that you are gorgeous inside, everyday when I drive past you, if I were to step inside you, House, you are hoping I would already think you are gorgeous, even though you are actually ugly.

It won't work on me, I'll tell you right now.

Also, I'm not looking for a new house. So just leave me alone.

C.T.

This is how it is.

I will not set foot inside IKEA again until I get my 2008 catalog in the mail.

I don't care that they sent me an e-mail saying that the 2008 catalog was on the way . . . a month ago.

I don't care that I can view it online.

I don't care that friends have their catalog and they have offered to let me have theirs.

I want the one that I am owed, and it should have been here already. They told me it was coming.

If IKEA is serious about me as a customer, they will hand over a catalog post haste.

C.T.

Also, my seat did not exist on the plane.

When I finally actually woke up around noon today after my whirlwind weekend in The Hills and my ridiculously early flight yesterday morning (yes, I went to work this morning and I'm amazed at how much work I can do when I'm still mostly asleep), I remembered another important piece of my journey home yesterday.

My seat did not actually exist on the plane.

True, it was really, really, ridiculously early when I got on the plane yesterday. So at first I thought I was just confused and had discovered that I cannot read numbers before 6:30am. It took me several very long minutes to figure out that the seat listed on my boarding pass was not actually on the plane. And even then, I wasn't sure anyone would believe me if I tried to explain what I thought I was seeing.

But still, even in a sleepy, grumpy haze, I know that the correct order of things is NOT 9-12-11-12.

My seat was 10D. There was no 10D.

I watched the numbers on the seat rows as I walked by and I suddenly realized that 12 came, but I never saw 10. Then I was at 14, and that was just completely wrong. I must have gone too far. I had to turn around and go back to take a closer look, which of course, annoyed everyone standing behind me.

The row that had all of the other seats that started with 10 (10A, 10B, 10C, 10E, 10F) just simply did not have a 10D. There was a 9D in front of it, and an 11D behind it. Then while my fuzzy brain tried to figure out this new funky "airline" math, I realized that there were two seats labeled as 12D.

There was the real 12D, then there was the fake 12D, which was really 10D, which was supposed to be my seat.

People were still staring at me as I shuffled backwards down the aisle with my carry-on. I tried to make a joke, "Heh. See, there's no 10D . . . two 12Ds . . . "

More stares. And I think someone threw something at me. Possibly a non-electronic digital camera.

Whatever. I HAD NO SEAT.

I briefly considered running off of the plane because surely not having a seat on the plane was a really bad thing. I'm thinking something as tragic as perhaps I have found myself in an upcoming bizarro episode of LOST, and that this plane will surely crash but I will be the only one who doesn't survive . . . because I never really had a seat on the plane.

And someone was calling me from inside the plane. In a Scream mask, holding Jason's chainsaw, in the library, with the candlestick.

It was all very dramatic in my head. But since people were still staring I decided to take Fake 12D as my seat until two someones came along insisting they both had 12D, at which time we would fight to the death for one of the 12Ds, or at least until one of us fell asleep.

It was really, really, ridiculously early in the morning.

I made it home just fine.

C.T.

Earthquakes, Aborigines, and The Coloneling

I spent my weekend in a little place I like to call, The Hills. Laguna Hills, that is. It was a fabulous weekend filled with friends/family (I'm that crazy "auntie" from a far away land who is not really related but shows up in family photos and on the couch from time to time), adventure, and intrigue.

1. The Coloneling
The main event was the celebration of the Colonel, well, becoming a Colonel. Apparently this involved a grueling and intense series of mazes and Sudoku puzzles. Or something. But however he got there, we chose to celebrate with tacos and flan.

It also involved this shirt:


And this button:


And yes, I made both. They sold like hotcakes. Whatever that means.

2. Earthquake
There was a 4.something earthquake yesterday. We sat at the table the day before talking about how there are no earthquakes anymore. Then, we went and had one. It was my first earthquake. Ever.

Of course, I was in the shower and did not feel a thing. I had no idea the earth had quaked until they told me later.

I was hoping for a bit more drama than that. I did, however, go sit in the doorway for awhile after I found out that we'd had an earthquake. Just to be safe. And a little dramatic.

3. Aborigines
The Colonel family comes with two tiny Aborigine children of the ages of four-and-three-quarters, and almost two. True to the nature of Aborigine children, these children run wild and naked a lot. Which we are all okay with. It's in their nature.

Aborigine children activities included:
-Shooting Crazy Auntie T-Dawg with water guns and the water hose while chasing her through the water sprinklers (she was fully clothed - don't worry).
-Watching excerpts from all children-intentioned movies made in the past 10 years, plus Veggie Tales . . . twice. For me, it was like one long movie filled with Tarzan, Mulan, Wallace and Grommit, tiny Fern Gullies, and talking vegetables.
-Chalk outlines of big people and little people in the neighbor's driveway. It was a veritable Who's Who of crime scenes.
-Hot Wheels a-go-go. I always got stuck with the non-fast car. I think it was a conspiracy.
-Blowing bubbles in the front yard (I totally had the biggest bubbles. I'm amazing.).
-Poop and poop-related stories.

I am also (apparently) a very good Etcher Sketcher. My etchie-sketches consist of straight lines and little creativity, but by channeling my energy into making amazing mazes (all straight lines and right angles), I won the title of Very Good Etcher Sketcher. It's a rare, but valuable talent.

I also make a pretty good horse and/or jungle gym. You know you're family when two naked children are hanging off of you at the same time and everyone is okay with that.

My crowning glory and achievement was teaching the Aborigines the usefulness of the Wet Willy. You know, sticking your finger in your own mouth to get it nice and slobbery, then planting said slobbery finger into the ear of someone else. Oh, the fun that was had with the Wet Willies! I hope they continue to use this valuable knowlege often, especially when certain grown-ups least expect it.

4. The Conversation
I had a ridiculously early flight home this morning. But, I am thankful for this flight because had I been on a different flight, I would have missed 1) two twin 2-year-olds sitting in front of me who were trying to set the Guiness World Record for screaming the loudest and the longest on a flight . . . EVER, and b) the following conversation between the two Cher-from-Clueless lookalikes-soundalikes/aged-out sorority sisters sitting next to me on the plane:

Pilot: Please turn off and put away all cellphones and electronic devices at this time.
(Meanwhile, Cher #1 and Cher #2 are looking at photos on their digital camera from their wacky LA weekend that apparently ended at a tattoo parlor.)
Male Flight Attendant: Um, yeah. I'm going to need you to go ahead and turn that off now. All electronic devices need to be turned off at this time.
Cher #1: (to Cher#2) Um, what? Why do we have to turn this off??
Cher #2: (to Cher #1) Like, yeah. It's not like this is an electronic device or anything. It's just a digital camera. Like, totally unfair.

Then Cher #2 proceeded to give, like, marriage advice to Cher #1 for the rest of the 3-hour flight home.

And.... scene.

Finally, we all learned a valuable lesson this weekend. And that is, when you sit in the grass while wearing no pants, a bee will sting you in your butt. Then everyone will call you Bee Butt for the rest of the weekend, even though you are only four-and-three-quarters years old.

I got home and there were no naked children and no Disney movies. I don't really know what to do with that.

C.T.

P.S.