Best Burglary EVER

A few evenings ago, I picked up a few bags of groceries.  As I came into the house, I thought of locking the car with the keyring fob thingy, but (inevitably) forgot.  My hands were full.  My thoughts were busy.  Whoops.

The next morning, I was in the shower when I heard m husband stick his head into the bathroom and say, "Kate! I need you!  Someone broke into the car!"

Oh. Crap.

I came out right away, wildly flailing the towel around, hurriedly drying off and dressing in yesterday's clothes.  Hair still dripping, I dashed to the car.

"The door was open!  The console lid was open, the glove box was open, and YOUR TEACHING BAG was unzipped and open!" He had his head in the car, looking things over.

Oh no.  I have a wheelie little suitcase where I keep all my music and whatnot that I use when I teach flute lessons.  Luckily I am paranoid, and never ever leave my instruments in a car.

As I looked through the car, I ... didn't notice anything missing.  At all.  Maybe some change from the little dish in the middle.  Huh.  Then I noticed that some of the contents of the glove box had been removed and placed on the passenger seat.  The little manual, the registration, some CDs, a couple of pencils.  I peeked into the glove box itself and saw a small envelope.  The kind you get from the bank.

Full of money.

?

I pulled it out, mystified.  Did the thief LEAVE A DONATION?  I asked my husband, "Did you put this in the car?"  He glanced over and then froze in mystified confusion.  "What? No! What??"  I looked into the envelope and pulled out $60 in tens and twenties.  And a receipt.  It was dated about 10 months ago, and was from our own account.

"OH!  I remember!  When we drove to Chicago, we stopped off at the credit union!  I thought I lost that money.  You took $40 out and put it in your wallet and handed the envelope to me to put in my purse.  And then I never saw it again. And here it is."

By rifling through our junk, they uncovered our cash - AND DIDN'T SEE IT.
It was possibly the only burglary in which the "victims"  make money.

I am mightily tempted to leave the other car unlocked some night.  I'm missing a couple of pairs of earrings.

Unfortunately Hopelessly Inappropriate

Sometimes, even when (perhaps especially when) I'm trying to be sensitive to someone's feelings, I shove my size 9.5s firmly into my mouth.

Like the time a friend from grad school told me all about how her best friends were all gay men, and how rude people could be sometimes.  I, later in the conversation, said that something was "gay, but in the best possible way."  I NEVER use the word "gay" to mean anything but either homosexual or giddily happy.  Never.  But then?  That day?  Blammo. 

Then there was the student whose relative had died in an unexpected and somewhat grisly way.  During that lesson and the next one, I managed to use "dead-on," "deadly," "I'm dying here!" "you're killing me!" "one foot in the grave," and at least a few more corpse-laden words. 

Got financial trouble?  Surely, I'll talk about something "breaking the bank," or "sending me to the poorhouse."  Medical issues?  "Apple a day," "it's not like it's brain surgery!" or "that's like a CANCER in society!"  Weight struggles?  "Yo momma so FAT, she has her own ZIP code!"

What is WRONG with me? 

Sigh.

Gosselin: Always.

Hey Girl (Gosselin, not Gosling)

Gosselin DOES NOT Equal Gosling

Can I just confess something?

You know those "Hey, Girl" Ryan Gosling things?  Until fairly recently, I had heard about them and read the captions, but thought... (oh my.  Why am I telling you this?) 
(Because I'm the girl who did not realize that the "NOT-zees" were the "Nazis," and that the "Nazis" were neither  pronounced "NAAH-ZEI" nor were they a Native American tribe related to the Anasazi.)

Ok.  I thought that it was Jon Gosselin.  And I was utterly confused. 

But now I know.  And here is my thought:  we could start an entirely new meme.

Ryan Gosling thing

In honor of There's No Time For Pants (a blog I like), I'm making her a special "I'm peeved" Ryan Gosling thingy.

Steely Dan -- Oh, the Possibilities

Today while driving with the family, we somehow started to make spin-off joke names from Steely Dan.

A tire shop?  "Wheelie Dan's"

A sushi place?  "Eely Dan's"

A shoe store?  "Heely Dan's"

A church?  "Kneely Dan's"

A compost supply store?  "Peely Dan's"

Fishing supply?  "Reely Dan's"

Deli?  "Vealy Dan's"

Teeny Little Memory -- Inappropriate Stickers

When my daughter was just a mere sprout, I was given a calendar or book or something to record Major Events in her life.  You know the type, right?

"I filled my first diaper!"

"First roll from tummy to back!"

"First smile"

and so on.

There were cute little stickers that had all these "firsts" on them, so you could simply stick them onto the dates.  Easy Peasy.

Except that I never did it.  By the time she'd done all the "firsts" on the pages of stickers, I found them.  Whoops.  But recycler that I am, I thought "what shall I do with these?"

I came upon an answer.  I taught flute sectionals to a group of 5th graders each week, and I thought, "Hey.  This will make an excellent randomly weird kind of prize!  Like a gold star but BETTER."

That Friday, I was getting them to play a scale or something.  When they successfully completed it, I'd randomly stick a sticker onto their heads or shirts or something.  One girl giggled when she got, "First tooth!" The next laughed at "Says Ma-Ma!"

The next kid asked, "What's a 'bris'?"

Whoops.

Batman Likes Me!

What If...

What if you could cross a Polar Bear with a Poodle?
A Poodlar Bear.
And how cute would THAT be?

What if, occasionally, your hair just randomly stopped growing?  Wouldn't that just be a crapperoo?  Like, "Not to worry, that haircut with the too-short bangs will grow out."  And then "OH NOES!  It's like this for a YEAR!!!"

What if one could control one's fertility through sheer force of will and thought?  Wow.  Wouldn't THAT change things up?

Green-Eyed Monster, Thy Name is Kate [Updated, Happily]

So yesterday, I was teaching.  This was a beginning flute student, 4th grade.  Still trying to remember how to finger A-flat sometimes. 

From down the hall, I hear a flutist playing.  Really, really well. So well, in fact, that it was distracting me.  Then the pieces started to filter through to my mind.

Daphnis and Chloe
Afternoon of a Faun
Ibert flute Concerto
Tchaikovsky 4
Beethoven Leonore #3


This person is preparing for an orchestra audition.

I know all these pieces too.  I have taken and won orchestra auditions.  But now, at this moment, I'm reminding a little blonde girl that A-flat is left hand, all keys. 

It took all my professionalism and self-control to NOT grab up my flute and play those excerpts by memory, flawlessly. 

So....

Dear flutist down the hall;
Nice job.  But I'd have beaten you in that audition.  
Sincerely,
The woman teaching the beginner lesson down the hall

[Addendum:  That very evening, I got asked by a local (volunteer, non-professional) symphony if I could come in and play Principal flute on Holst's "The Planets" because their regular flutists couldn't quite cover the parts. Since one of my adult students plays in it, I said yes.  So there.]

Where Has The Egg Salad Gone?

I have that stupid song, "Where have all the flowerrsssss.... gone??" running through my mind.

You see, earlier I discovered the BESTEST post-Easter-egg snack (not at all healthy, but yummy).  Egg salad (made w/light mayo, mustard,and just a scooch of horseradish, salt and pepper) as a dip for potato chips!  I know.  I'm sorry.

But.

A few minutes ago, I was scooping, preparing to eat.  And a chunk of egg salad fell off.  Into ... apparently a rift in the time-space continuum, because it's GONE.  Not "gone because the dogs snarfed it" but really, truly gone.  I checked my pants.  I checked the couch.  I checked the top I'm wearing, my chin, the carpet, and my pants again.

Gone.

I am afraid to leave the house because no doubt it's clinging to me somewhere.  And wouldn't THAT be glamorous?  "Oh, Kate! Good to see y......   what is THAT?"

Feeling Powerful (for a Peculiar Reason)

This is one of the dumbest realizations I've ever had.

Today, I was at the local Kroger grocery store, waiting for Kris the Pharmacist to fill my prescriptions (I am on a first-name-basis with her.  Wanna make something of it?  She's awesome.), and I ventured down a frozen-food aisle.  I was alone in the aisle.

I noticed that the refrigerated cases were dark.  "How odd," I mumbled internally.  THEN?

They turned on.  BALINNNK! ON!

"Even odder," sez myself.

I crept out of the aisle, and stood still and waited.  BLONK.  They turned back out.

No, really.  That's me.  

I edged back in verrrry slowly.   Past the frozen pizzas. Nothing.  Slllowlllly.  Past the frozen egg rolls.  Nothing.  I made it all the wayto the middle of the aisle (near the frozen tortellini). Then I leaped up and down, thrashing my arms around, and BALINNNK!  ON!

I out-ninjaed the freezer cases.

HA!

Low-Talkers and Why They Bug Me

...so, you know .... low-talkers?  Mmmmbllbllllmmm talking... but reallyyy.... wish they could say.... mbbbllouder....

ACK.

Doesn't it make you nuts?  You hear this drone, just below comfortable-listening level.  It drifts into your consciousness.  Then the person looks at you expectantly.
You end up saying, in growing exasperation,

"Pardon me?"
Mmmmbllbllllmmm

 "What was that?"
 .... mbbbllouder....

"Sorry?"
.... mbbbllouder....


Finally, you shriek, "WHAT?? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?"

They look at you, raise their eyebrows, and say, oh-so-distinctly, ".... I was saying tha....andmmmmblll over theremmmmbblll withoutll....mmmmmmbbbrlll?"

You might try again.  "So sorry.  There was a noise.  Could you say that a little louder?"

They sigh, roll their eyes, and raise their voices infinitesimally.  "".... I was SAYING tha....andmmmmblll over theremmmmbblll withoutll....mmmmmmbbbrlll?"

 "FINE. Whatever."

If a low-talker thinks I am going to do all the conversational work, THEY HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING.  DID YOU HEAR THAT?  DID YOU???

Thought so. 

Most Romantic Card Ever?

I read The Bloggess' blog today, and was inspired.  Please go see her stuff!

I want this to be a card for Valentine's day.  Or really, for any occasion.

Front of the card.                   Inside the card.

Thank you, The Bloggess, for all you do.  You crazy little turdburger.

**TO FURTHER RE-CLARIFY AND PROPERLY CITE, THE IMAGE OF THE CREEPY CHRISFARLEYDUDE WITH THE AWESOME T-SHIRT IS THE BLOGGESS'ES.  I do not own that image.  She came up with the phrase "Use your ivagination" and turned it into one of the finest pieces of couture lingerie of all time.  Go thank her.** (Please, The Bloggess, don't come and kill me. Or sic Brian Boitano on me. He could whup me with one ice cream sandwich held behind his back.)

YOINK! Things I DISLIKE that Everybody Else LIKES

I was reading "One in the Hand", and she was talking about things she hated that everybody else likes, and I was all, "DUDE! That could be ME!"

  However, being my mother's daughter, I thought to myself "'hate' is a very big emotion."  I just can't commit to saying I hate things unless I really REALLY hate them.  Therefore, this is a list of my dislikes.

I am in agreement with One in the Hand in my first one.

1:  BATHS.  My husband thinks that baths are the answer to nearly anything that ails you, but for me?  Not really.  Parts of me stick out of the bathwater and get cold.  It's boring.  I feel like I should be doing something, like shaving my legs or pumicing my heels.  I can't read unless I'm willing to sacrifice a book to the Water Gods.  And when I get up and out, I feel like I weigh a ton.  I'm always worried I'm going to slip and kill myself.

2:  DARK CHOCOLATE.  Maybe I haven't had good enough chocolate, but it's not creamy like milk chocolate, and it just reads as bitter in my mind.  I can easily do without it.

3:  Adam Sandler.  He's not funny for the most part.  He's just stupid. 

4:  Eat, Pray, Love.  I read it and ugh.  It was the most self-serving book.  And actually, I found it to be poorly-written.  In the hands of a better author, it could have been spectacular.

5:  Twitter.  I've tried.  Really.  But the whole point seems to be "how many times can I interrupt other people's thoughts?" which doesn't suit me.

6:  Gambling.  I just don't get it at all.  Why would anyone willingly use actual money to do this?  You're not getting anything out of it.  Yes, I guess sometimes you win, but mostly, you're just getting rid of your hard-earned cash.

7:  So You Think You Can Dance/Glee/American Idol/Reality Shows.  Real people are annoying and shallow when they have a camera trained on them.  And Glee is ... it's like being locked in a room with the most annoying members of the Drama Club in high school.  They're all hanging around the boombox, singing whilst making meaningful hand gestures, and I'm edging around the perimeter of the room trying to find the exit.

Incredibly Bad Joke (cartoon)

Catastrophization and Other Amusements

I wrote yesterday how I tend towards the "on the upside" in many situations.  I find the light at the end of the tunnel, the silver lining, etc. 

What I failed to mention was that "upside-ing" is my brain's attempt to avoid its natural state.
Catastrophization.  Or, as I usually think of it, "worst case scenario-ing."

Example 1:
My infant daughter, my first child, was amazing and lovely.  Wondrous.  But also didn't like to sleep for long stretches.  To say that I was sleep-deprived for her first year of life would be a ridiculous understatement.  My mental functioning was reaching alarmingly low levels. Which leads to:
THE STUFFED MOUSE INCIDENT.
Upon changing a nastily full diaper one afternoon, I blearily wiped the little bottom and powdered.  Then I glanced at the contents of the diaper --skittishly-- (I was not yet a seasoned mom, and such things grossed me out still).  I saw something.  Something ... fuchsia, perhaps.  Red.  I panicked.  MY BABY IS POOPING ODD-COLORED BLOOD!  SHE'S GONNA DIE!  Upon further (reluctant) inspection, it acquired a peculiarly unexpected form.  A mouse.  A toy stuffed mouse with pink ears.  It was maybe 3 inches long, and had been (pre-poop) rather cute. 
WHUCK?
A toy mouse? In the diaper?
My sleep deprivation led me to the obvious conclusion:  Somehow, she had managed to EAT THE MOUSE, and POOP IT OUT. Then I wondered, "How on EARTH had she eaten it and not CHOKED TO DEATH?"  I'm such a neglectful Mommy!  SHE COULD HAVE DIED OF CHOKING ON A MOUSE!  And then, how did said mouse make its way through her entire digestive system without tangling it all up.  OH NO!  What if it HAD tangled it all up and she was GONNA DIE because of the mouse-induced tangle-age?

At this point, I called my brother.  He had no children at the time, and therefore was less sleep-deprived than I was.

He, luckily, had more of his brain active than I did.  He pointed out the obvious.

Child had inserted mouse into diaper PRE-POOPING. 

Oh.

Then I recalled how I had taken to putting on her onesies backward because she tended to use her diaper as a convenient toy-storage device. (Reversing the onesie put the snaps on the back, rendering the onesie impermeable to her efforts.)

Ohhhhhhhh. 

Once I hung up, my adrenaline was still racing through me.  I eyed the poopy mouse, mentally cursing it for exposing me as the lunatic 'worst case scenario' person I was.

I rolled it up into the diaper and shoved it vengefully into the diaper Genie.  Buh-bye, poopymouse. 

EXAMPLE 2:
Setting: Our first house. Indiana.

I was very concerned with our first house.  It was adorable!  Well-kept.  Nice-looking.  It was home-ownership that had me weirded out.

So the fact that one corner of our previously dry basement kept flooding one summer had me extremely worked up. 
I worried about, oh, foundations cracking.  Previously-unnoticed underground lakes.  Sabotage.  Dogs peeing in floods of water-smelling urine?  I started to panic.  We knew that someday we'd move out of state.  WHAT would we put on the disclosure form?  "WELL, THE BASEMENT FLOODS RANDOMLY.  SORRY."  We'd never be able to sell the house!  We'd be stuck in Indiana FOREVER.  It would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to dig out the house, bash out the basement, and re-pour the foundation! 

But here's the thing.
The mystery.

It only ever flooded on the day after a beautiful day.  A clear day.  No rain. 
How, then, is it flooding?
Where in the hell is the water coming from?

This happened again and again.  All summer.  Gorgeous, dry summer day.  Beautiful night.  WATER EVERYWHERE the next morning.

Then I clued in to another mysterious coincidence.
It was ALWAYS the morning after I had mowed the lawn the afternoon before.

How is this possible?  HOW?

I put my tired-out, freaked-out brain to work.

Then one night, after I'd mowed the lawn, I heard a sound outside.  It was midnight.  A-HA, I thought.  OUR WATER MARAUDER IS HERE.  I shall find out the TRUTH!  Armed with my glasses, a big butcher knife from the kitchen, and my slippers, I slinked out the side door, hearing .... a noise.  A... spraying noise.

There, on the corner of the house (the 'flooding corner') was the bracket that held our garden hose.  Which was looped neatly on the bracket, getting it out of the way when I had mowed the lawn that afternoon.  With the watering timer still on it.  Turning on promptly at midnight.  It only turned on when it was dry outside.  At midnight, for an hour.

I sighed, lowered the butcher knife, and turned off the spigot.  I looked up at the Indiana midnight sky and wondered if this kind of thing happens to everybody.  Then I sighed again, and went back to bed.

Ugly Soup: The Disguise

Remember how I said I made Ugly Soup with leeks, spinach, carrots, and squash all pureed together?

Well, does the disguise work?

Two Evil Sisters

I was just reading an amazing post by Caro at
http://helpmeorillkickyou.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/i-remember-me/

It caused me to begin to ramble in a comment there, and I got a grip on myself, and said I'd continue here.

Here is part of my comment:

• I’ll try to pull it together for a moment. I HATE HATE Selective Ignorance (let’s call it SI). Also Deliberate Naivety, her prim, passive-aggressive stepsister. HATES them. So very many wrongs are committed by them. 

 

In Caro's case, she's referring to eating meat.  The fact that up until now, she has ignored what happens (the inhumane treatment of animals, the slaughter, and so on) so that she can eat meat.

Now, I'm no vegetarian.  (But after seeing the picture of the most adorable piglet EVER on her blog, it makes me wish I had the necessary gumption).  But.

I DO HATE Selective Ignorance and Deliberate Naivety.

So many people put on the cheap blonde wigs of S.I. and D.N. and do terrible, stupid, unkind, thoughtless things.  "What?  Nobody TOLD me that I was supposed to put oil in the car!" "How was I supposed to know that by drinking the entire last 1/4 of a gallon of milk, nobody else would get any?"
"No, I had no IDEA that my next-door neighbor needed help raking her lawn.  She's only 98! Perfectly healthy!"
"Well, I'm sure someone is working to solve that pesky climate change issue.  If it is real."

Selective ignorance occurs on large and small scales, from "don't know how to load the dishwasher" to "Genital mutilation? It's a myth, and if it exists, it's cultural!"

Deliberate Naivety is more subtle.  I see it a lot in women of a certain age who act like they are completely incapable of handling any thought or decision-making outside the scope of their own home.  "Oh, politics?  Too complicated for me.  I just vote like my husband does."  Or, "I only read books from the 'Christian Fiction' section.  I don't want to risk running into (whispering) sex scenes."

A lot of children and young adults exhibit this too.  In combination with S.I., you will see evidence of this when a high schooler is asked a question, say, in History class, and they claim to never have heard of something.  However, that very thing was covered in English class and in Science.  But they don't seem to realize that it's ok to integrate their knowledge.

What can we do?

I tend to challenge these kids directly.  "Really?  Are you quite sure you don't know?  I'll bet you can figure it out. Think again!"
The adults I tend to dismiss.  If a person is choosing to close their mental eyes, to stick their head under the sand of stupid, there's not much I can think of to say.  If I encourage them to think harder, to make their own decisions, it often comes off as me challenging their beliefs.  If I act skeptical that they really don't know something, it is condescending and rude. 

Honestly, I tend to just smile, raise my eyebrows, pick up my drink and head for the next person over.

I don't mean to be superior.  I don't want to be.  But I just don't know how to rise above, here.