I Don't Know My Own Strength

I've been on a root beer float kick lately. I was scooping ice cream for my yummy treat, and pwing!

I found the other half of the spoon in the living room.

I guess I'm stronger than I thought.

Look Mom! I'm an M&M!

Why don't I have a nose?

Click here to make your own.

*Beware, it's addictive.

Whew!

Saturday was an eventful day for me.

I was supposed to be moving things into the new house, but instead I helped my brother drywall a beam. Have you ever drywalled? It's pretty intense. It's a lot of working over your head, with a lot of mud. Basically, that translates into having mud all over you. Here's an overview of the day.

I pulled staples out of the sheetrock because some idiot put them in the wrong place. I got lots of insulation in my eyes.

I helped hang sheetrock, which pretty much entailed holding the piece in place - more an an effort than you'd think, since I'm basically a midget.

I mixed drywalling mud with a tool that looked like a heavy duty eggbeater. Have you seen the cartoons where Goofy tries to use a jackhammer and ends up bouncing around because it vibrates so much? That's kind of how I felt. It was like whipping egg whites, only so much cooler.
I was too lazy to go downstairs and get another ladder, so I stacked two 4x4's on top of each other to stand on. Big surprise - I fell. Picture silence in the house, interupted by a loud crash, followed by "Ow!" The top piece rolled out from under me and I landed on the bottom one. My reaction (after "ow")? "Man. I should have seen that coming."

I learned that vaccuming plastic with a shopvac is a pain in the tuckas. It just sucks the plastic right up and won't let go. Apparantly you can use your hand as a block, but I couldn't get it to work all that well.

I was sitting on the floor, vaccuming with the shopvac (having given up on the plastic). I had the hose draped over my shoulder. The hose popped off of the attachment, and latched onto my hair. It just sucked my messy bun right in there. Picture squealing a writhing while I tried to reach the whole before it sucked up my whole head.

The best part of the day? Breaking a board with my hand. Okay, so it was sheetrock, which isn't the toughest material, but it still made me feel cool. I even said, "Hee-YAH!" Yeah, I showed that sheetrock who's boss.

Where do these people come from?

Do you ever look at people and wonder about their story? I know I do. I like to imagine that they were the nerd in school, or wonder about how they met their spouse, or where they work.

Sometimes you see people who really spark the imagination; other times there are people who defy it.

Like this woman.

This is Cowpie Pattie. She's a familiar face in my community. I also often refer to her as, "The Crazy Guitar Lady." She stands on corners and in parking lots, holding her homemade cross aloft, strumming her guitar (one handed, so tunelessly) and singing made up songs about Jesus. And sometimes, politics.

I often wonder what happened to turn Pattie into Cowpie Pattie, the Crazy Guitar Lady. I know she has some kind of mental illness, but according to my former-social-worker mother, she wasn't always this crazy.

I'm pretty sure she lives in her car. I could be wrong, but she has an awful lot of stuff packed into that car.

She has several different guitars. The one she's using in this picture (you can't see it) is simple and black. My favorite is her purple Hannah Montana guitar. It really provides an excellent backdrop for her made-up religious songs.

None of that answers my question, though. What happened to her? Was there something traumatic in her childhood? Did she have a severe allergic reaction to heartbreak? Did she lose a loved one? Or is it just the mental illness?

This is actually a picture of Cowpie Pattie's reflection in my rear view mirror. I noticed her in the parking lot, but I couldn't bring myself to actually stop and take her picture, just so I could make fun of her on my blog.

Although, now that I've actually written it, I realize it's not so much making fun of her, as being saddened by the state of her life.

Sorry, Pattie.

Driving: One Big Pet Peeve

I have a teensy bit of road rage.

I wouldn't even call it "road rage," really. It's more than all of my pet peeves seem to center around driving. I'm not going to get out of my car and bludgeon anyone. I'm just going to yell. From inside me car. Where no one can hear me, except my passengers (why do they always looks so scared?).

Now, don't try to pretend that you're one of those driving saints. I know better. Come on. Admit it. You know that you've been caught shouting, "Come on, Grandpa!" or "Go, you idiot!"

So just to make you feel better, I'll tell you my pet peeves about driving.

• People who don't use their blinkers. What am I, psychic?

• People who use their blinkers, but then don't turn them off. Are you moving over? Yes? No?

• People who turn their blinkers on three turns before the one they're acutally going to take.

• People who follow too closely (being rear-ended three times in as many years might have something to do with this). Here's a hint. If I can't see your headlights, you're TOO CLOSE!

• People who speed through my small town. Just because you're driving through doesn't mean you can go 40 miles an hour.

• People who are speed, etc. in places that they know are dangerous. Yes, guy who came hurtling around the blind curve by McDonald's, I'm talking to you.

• People who don't wait their turns at stop signs. Just because the guy in front of you went doesn't mean you can too.

• People who take forever to pass, even though you're clearly going much faster than they are. Hello, Utah roadblock (also know as Mexican roadblock).

• The stupid Meadow Gold trucks that block the road by a main intersection. They don't even have anyone directing traffic. And when you get your butts sued off, I will laugh. Bwaa-ha-ha-ha! Like that.

As a funny aside: A good friend of mine was getting ready to go on a mission, and we went to a movie. When she picked me up, I noticed she had pictures of Jesus plastered all over her car. Seriously, all over. There were at least six of them. I said, "Um, Katie? What's the deal with all the Jesus pictures?"

She blushed and said, "Yeah . . . I kind of have a problem with road rage. I'm working on it."

"Oh. Is that working for you?"

"Move it, you moron! Not really."

P.S. - If you're wondering why the bullet points are so unevenly spaced, it's because I got in a fight with the bullet point button. I lost. And now I can't get a space between this line and the last. Damn Blogger.

I'm So Mad I'm a Muggle!

If you've read the Harry Potter series, you're probably familiar with the Pensieve. For those of you who aren't, it's a magical instrument that Professor Dumbledore frequently uses. It's a bowl filled with a shiny substance that looks like molten silver. The liquid is actually memories. The user extracts a memory using magic (although I pictured it being much less painful) and then places it into the bowl. When the user would like to retrieve the memory, he merely looks deeply into the bowl, and is transported back into his memory in real time.

I really want a Pensieve. There are a lot of really cool magical things in Harry Potter, but if I could choose one, it would definitely be the Pensieve.

Dumbledore uses his because he's seen so much and he runs out of room in his head. I would use mine to get rid of the pesky memories; the ones that make you cringe.

I've been having a lot of those lately. Unfortunately, it feels like most of my memories are the kind that make me cringe, although that's probably because nearly 50% of my life is still made up of awkward teenage years. Still, there's nothing I hate worse than being pounced on by a memory that makes me ill just to recall.

If only I had a Pensieve, I could siphon of all those lousy memories, put them in the bowl, and put the bowl in my closet to gather dust. Isn't that really where all those memories should be anyway? Gathering dust?

My life would be so much easier if only I weren't a Muggle.

Adventures in (and around) the Workplace

On Friday I was downstairs working the counter when a customer came in. I was helping another customer, so this man asked if he could use the restroom. I directed him to the facilities and continued to help the customer in front of me. The gentleman came down just as I finished with the first customer, and I asked him if I could help.

As he was explaining his needs, I got a whiff of something that smelled suspiciously poop-like. Let me clarify: the store I work at is two stories. The "store" is downstairs, and the offices and restroom are upstairs. I could smell this guy's bathroom experience clear downstairs. I couldn't look him in the face. It was all I could to do keep from yelling, "Dude! What did you have for lunch? Have you no shame?"

He didn't need much, so I helped him pretty quickly. As he was walking out, Nikki, a co-worker, came into the store. I noticed she had a strange look on her face. As soon as I heard the man go out the door, I said, "Oh my gosh, Nikki! That guy! He used the bathroom and I can smell it clear down here!"

"I could smell it when I came in the back door!" Nikki exclaimed. "What did he do up there? I wonder if he opened the window."

"I don't know, but I'm afraid to go up there."

"Is Cissy up there?" Nikki asked, refering to another co-worker.

I felt my eyes go wide. "Yeah, she is. I hope she's still alive!!"

Nikki braved the wave of poo-stench and went to open the window. I heard hshe and Cissy talking, and I heard Cissy say, "Yeah, I thought I should spray in there, but I wasn't brave enough." Apparantly we're all indimidated by poo-stink.

When Nikki came downstairs, I asked, "Is she okay? Was she concious? Seizing?"

Another good friend and customer who had been in while the Great Pooping Customer was there came back in to find us in a fit of giggles with both doors open to let in the chilly breeze. When we told him the story, he said, "Oh, thank God! I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was one of you girls, and someone was sick or something. Man, that was BAD!"

***
And now, for adventure number two (but not that kind of number two):

One of my bosses buys a lot of lotto tickets. What's more, he actually buys winning lottery tickets, on a fairly regular basis.

I'm not much of a lotto player. I bought one when I turned 18, just because I could. I've bought a couple since then. But Lee makes it look so easy! He comes in and says, "I got another $300 scratcher last night!" and before I know it, I've got lotto fever.

I can usually manage to resist the urge until it passes, but sometimes, you've just gotta scratch the itch. Today was one of those days. After lunch (I took my 10-year-old nephew out for lunch for his birthday. Am I the coolest aunt or what?) I stopped at the convienience store to pick up a soda, and I caved. I bought two $1.00 tickets, with no allusions whatsoever that I might win. I knew I was throwing my money away.

I sat in my car outside the store and scratched away. I needed three matching amounts to win. $20 . . . $50 . . . $500 . . . $500 . . . $20 . . . $500 . . . wait! What??? I stared at the ticket in utter disbelief.

"Holy crap." I could feel my heart thumping. Five hundred dollars! I just won five hundred dollars! Visions of the stuff I could buy with the money started dancing through my head as I scratched at the amounts more, cleaning it up so the clerk would have no question about my astounding luck.

$500 . . . Hah! . . . $500 . . . Wahoo! . . . wait, what's this? Why am I seeing more? There's not supposed to be anymore. $2,500?!?!? WTF????

And just like that, my hopes, dreams, and beautiful red furniture vanished into thin air. "Stupid freaking lottery," I grumbled.

When I got back to work, I blamed Lee, telling him he's a bad influence on me; I never bought lotto tickets before he started bragging.

He took it pretty well. I guess he's used to it. Lucky bugger.