Wimp

I don't mean to keep harping on about my boobs and the bras that contain them (http://psb1969.blogspot.com/2013/04/my-monday.html), but I have been having some recent issues that were causing me concern.  I don't know how to really describe what was going on...except to say that my left breast started to not feel "right." So I did what any mature 40-something woman would do...I whined about it, mashed around on my own boob 37 times a day and constantly Googled my symptoms.  I don't know when I will ever learn that I can seriously scare the shit out of myself by looking up ANYTHING, even the possible causes of a sore toe, and that WebMD is just going to give me nightmares.  I tried to enlist the help of the hubby... Well, anyone who knows him probably knows how THAT went...

Me: Jeff, feel my boobs and tell me if they feel all right
Jeff: You got it!
Me: NO!!! This is purely for medicinal purposes...does one feel different than the other??
Jeff: Grope
Me: Seriously, do they feel the same as they always have?
Jeff: (Something inappropriate that I can't even repeat here.)
Me: Look, no...stop that.  I am trying to determine if...
Jeff: Mhmmmm....boobies.
Me: God, NEVERMIND, Beavis.

After three week of this...I couldn't really tell if I was REALLY having soreness and tenderness or if I'd caused it myself by obsessively trying to see if there was something wrong.  Finally, flipping through my calendar, I realized that my yearly "lady" exam was coming up in May...and I was gonna have to go to a real live medical professional soon anyway, so I called the office...

"But Marianne!" you say..."Why didn't you just talk to your VERYOWN best friend, Jacquie,  who ALSO happens to be a Gynecologist?  Who even has her own blog : http://anappleadayjq.com. FILLED with "questions you'd ask your best friend if she was a gynecologist"?"
 
Well, I didn't because she's in New Zealand at the moment, I'd have had to email her because I can't call her and I miss her terribly anyway and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, plus she will tell me to go into the office and get my boobs squished in the mammogram machine and also will probably lecture me about quitting smoking completly even though I only do it a little bit and also that it's probably all connected to the fact that I'm over 40 and these things happen when your boobs get old...but she'd only be telling me these things because she loves me and...Yeah, I have no real good excuse for not contacting her...

But I did finally put my big girl panties on and did the next best thing...I called Jacquie's nurse, who worked me in with my Gyno (they are part of the same practice...J's just on a leave of absence right now) so that she could examine me and see if my left boob was trying to rot off.  My doctor, Dr. C, is a very awesome...she's every bit as blunt as Jacquie and even though I can resent that sometimes, it's truly what I need.  My only complaint (and this is TOTALLY my issue, not hers) is that she is so nice and friendly that she talks to me during exams.  Despite my willingness to talk about my breastular area all over the internets and all...I'm actually quite a modest person.  I would really rather lie on my back and think of England during my exam while some nice soothing Muzak plays in the background and NO ONE talks until everyone is equally clothed.  But Dr. C, in what I am sure is an attempt to make me unclench every muscle in my body, tries to help me forget what's going on by chatting with me...

"What a lovely anklet you have!  I have been looking for one with multicolored beads forEVER..."

"Oh? Anklet?  Oh, the one right there by your right ear??? Gah!"

(That really happened, by the way)

Finally, after I have been poked and prodded, and properly felt up, Dr. C tells me that she didn't feel anything wrong and helps me sit up and asks me again what my concern was exactly as I turn seventeen shades of red because I am sitting there wearing basically a couple of paper towels...

"My left one feels heavier than my right..."

Which is when she lifts one in each hand like she's gauging the weight of a couple of canteloupes (they're melons...get it?) and says, "Meh...not that I can tell." Then she lets me get dressed and sends me over to the lab for a mammogram (I KNEW IT!) and a sonogram. The sonogram wasn't so bad, it was the mammogram I had been dreading...and I was right too...they have a new booby-mashing machine that has a readout WHERE I CAN SEE IT of how much force they were mashing my boobies with...(around 25 lbs)...Seriously, people, this is information I do not need access to...it just freaks my analytical brain out and stresses me more. Twenty-five pounds is a lot of weight for my girls to get mashed by, ya'll.  It's like setting the box of cat litter down on one.

Preliminary reactions from everyone (I got felt up by three different people in one day...yet no one even bought me a drink) are that nothing is wrong except that I have 40+ year old boobs...but I still need to wait for the official results.  In the meantime, I need to quit smoking (Gah!), I have to give up caffeine (gasp! this is even worse than I thought) and I need to go get myself properly fitted for a bra (because I haven't been violated enough, apparently). Looks like my cigarette and Starbucks money is going to be going towards some new bras.  At least Jeff will be pleased.

My Monday

Have you ever had one of those days when one of your under wires decides to make a bid for freedom, and you have to run to the bathroom 17 times while you're trying to work to try to push it down where it belongs because it keeps poking you in your side boob but then it works its way back out 3 minutes later and jabs you again?  Then, when you get in your car at the end of the day to go home you realize that you cannot take it ONE. MORE. SECOND? So you drive with your knees so that you can unfasten your bra and can finally work it out one of your arm holes of your shirt...then you fling the damn thing into the passenger seat and let out a sigh of relief...as you start praying that you won't have a flat tire or anything on the way home because...hey, gravity stopped being your friend about ten years ago, but so-help-you-God there was no way you could have stood having that thing on for the drive home? No???  Must just be me then.

Southern Stuff: Part 2

A couple of posts ago, I discussed deviled egg plates.  I mentioned that the only female in my office that didn't own one was Susan from Wisconsin.  Susan is one of my favorite people in the world, even if she is a Yankee.  Sadly, she is leaving the company we work for (after 20+ years!)  She's taking a new job in Mobile, AL where she will have 10 minute access to the Gulf Coast beaches, so I can't blame her at all.  But I am going to miss the fire out of her.  While we were organizing her going-away luncheon, I decided to put together a list of all of the Southern things that we (me & my office-mates) have taught her.  I'm editing the list to take out some of the inside jokes...but I'm sharing the rest with y'all:

 

Things Susan has learned about being Southern:

• When it’s raining while the sun is shining, it means the devil is beating his wife with a wet dishtowel.
• How to open up a can of whoop-ass. (Note: We suspect that she always knew how to do this...just not what to call it.)
• How to properly pronounce the word for a small stream of water (creek)
• How to make cheese toast. (Seriously...how do you get through childhood without learning how to make cheese toast...WHICH IS NOT AN OPEN-FACED GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH...cheese toast is made in the oven, not on the stove-top)
• What it means when you’re “fixin to” do something.
• What pan-fried chicken is.
• When to bless somebody’s heart (and that it may not be meant as a compliment)
• What “swingers” really means…and that it is not something to talk about in polite company. (Note: this may have been a blonde moment and not a yankee moment...but I'm still including it on the list)
• How much something cost and where you got it. (She really, really hated whenever someone did that..."What a nice pair of earrings." "Why thank you so much.  I got them at Target on sale for $4.40")
• That a “hoe-down” is a fun party. (I mean, even the BEATLES knew that (Rocky Racoon) and they were from England.)
• That when you have a hoe-down, people are going to bring a covered dish, so get over it already. (This really drove her nuts.  She'd throw a party...people would ask her "What can I bring?" and she'd always say "Nothing...I've got it covered." and then we'd show up with something anyway.)
• Whether or not it is proper to put sugar or cheese in grits. (It is not.)
• That “the cat stealing a baby’s breath” is an old-wives’ tale.
• The difference between a hose pipe and a water pipe.
• How to make a tomato sammich (White Bread. sliced tomatoes. Mayo (Preferrably Blue Plate, it's the only time I don't prefer Kraft Mayo). salt and pepper) And a true-blue, honest-to-God-real tomato sammich is made on WonderBread...which you can't even buy anymore.
• What a thing-a-ma-jig is
• The true meaning of “winner-winner, chicken-dinner.”
• What “some count” is…(i.e. that those ribs are some count)
• That GRITS are girls raised in the south…and that she has two of them.
• How to correctly pronounce P-C-Bs. Polychlorinated Biphenyls.  We are a bunch of engineering/lab nerds with Southern accents.  PCB is Pay-Cee-Bays.
• What a freaking tornado warning means! (And not to try to drive yourself through one)! (She drove through the storm that produced the tornados that deccimated Tuscaloosa on April 27, 2011...against stringent advice.)
• The right way to eat pumpkin seeds and scuppernongs. (You don't eat the outer parts of either)
• What it means to “bow up.” (We struggled forever to articulate for her what this meant...this action happens when someone says something that offends someone else: John bowed up at Paul when Paul made fun of his shirt.  The best explanation we could come up with was that of a hissing cat...whose back "bows up" when it hisses.)
• That when you’re sore from too much exercise the next morning you are “Stove up”
• When you twist your ankle, it gets “Swole up”

 

Unfortunately, we never taught her how to appreciate gravy.

After reveiwing the list during her luncheon, we then presented Susan with her very own egg plate to take with her and declared her no-longer a Yankee, but a properly raised Southern Lady.  Bless her heart.

Long time, no blog

Hellllooooo, everyone!

Yes, I know it's been about forever since I had a new blog post.  Sadly, I was shipped off for 2 1/2 weeks to do some proposal writing...so I've been out-of-pocket and snowed under for awhile.  The first two weeks of my sojourn were away in Maryland, with a quickie weekend back home.  AND when I flew in to the B'ham airport for my quick trip home, my car wouldn't start.  It acted like it wanted to start, it was trying to turn over and everything...then...nada.  Note: try not to get mugged or raped in the Birmingham Airport parking garage because those emergency call boxes are bullshit. Bull. Shit. I had to try THREE different ones to find one that worked.  Once I got someone, they took their merry little time getting to me.  I had them try to jump the car off, hoping it was the battery, but it still wouldn't start.

Me: Okay, so I guess I'll have to call someone to tow me.  Do you have any recommendations?

Surly Security Person: Ain't none of 'em 'round here got a tow-truck that can get in the parking garage.

Me: So...

SSP: You'll prolly have to find someone willin' to push your car outta the garage.  And none of the local companies is willin' to do that, lemme tell you.

Me: I can't be the first person to have a car that won't start in this parking garage.

SSP: Probably not.

Me: So what have other people done?

SSP: Hmmm...that's a good question.

Me: Yes, I thought so too.

SSP: I don't rightly know.

Very helpful, asshole.

Luckily, I've been back and forth on the phone with Jeff during most of this, and we have a friend who owns a body shop and a wrecking service.  (insert plug for Skinner's Body Shop here). Jeff called Greg & he got someone to come from Oxford to Birmingham to get me.  It took an hour for them to get there...and sure enough, the flat-bed wrecker wouldn't fit inside the parking garage.  The guy tried himself for another 15-20 minutes to start the car (BTW, did you know Volvos have their batteries in the trunk? True story) but didn't get any better results.  So he pushed my car out of the garage.  Down two and a half levels and out into the open.  Right about then, security showed up (they had totally abandoned the scene while we were getting the car out) & the wrecker guy (I think his name was Bill) asked him where he needed to go to get his truck around.  Turns out you can't do that.  Bill had to bring the wrecker around to the area just outside the tollgate thingy where you give them your ticket & pay for your parking.  Then he came back and pushed my car up an incline and through the toll gate...THEN he was able to load it onto the wrecker. Yay, Bill! (or Bob...his name might have been Bob.  Or maybe Jim.  I should remember this because the guy was my freaking HERO at the time but I had taken a Xanax back when security was "helping" me earlier in order to control my urge to slap someone)  ANYWAY...we rode the hour + drive back to Oxford and dropped the car off at the only auto-repair guy in town that works on Volvos.
God, I hate cars.  I mean, usually, I love my little red zippy-zoom Volvo.  I just hate cars when they won't act right.  It is NEVER convenient to get stranded.  And we rely on the damn things so much.  But like my Granny used to say, "If it has tires or testicles, it will eventually give you trouble." (my Granny actually never said that...my Granny was a saint who would have fainted dead away before she ever said anything like "testicles" outside of medical context.  I think it was Annette who I'm really quoting...but sage advice always sounds more sage-y when you quote your grandmother.  Plus, that shit is TOTALLY true).

I spent the rest of the weekend and following week trying to forget about my broken car (which was actually pretty easy since it stayed at the Volvo-fix-it place the entire time.)  Turns out, there's a switch in the steering column that recognizes the chip in the key fob.  I think it's called an "immobilization thingy."  It's there to keep your car from being stolen in case someone copies your key.  And hey, good job, because that car was going NO WHERE.  Unfortunately, because it was a security whats-it, it took the repair shop several days to get a new one & install it.  While he was at it, the repair guy checked the Volvo's computer log for any other messages and recommended I replace the spark plugs (yeah, I don't know what the flash-to-bang sequence was there either...but whatever).  A mere $417 later, and all is well (and supposedly reliable) again.

Honoring The Great Gatsby (Originally Southern Stuff: Part One)

Originally posted on 2/13/13:
 
Today, somehow, my daughter talked me into making four dozen deviled eggs for her to take to school tomorrow.  As tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, I cannot fathom why she needs forty-eight deviled eggs…but whatever.  I agreed to make them.

(FYI, if you want someone to make you deviled eggs in ANY quantity, please do not wait until the night before to ask for them.  As anyone knows, peeling a boiled egg is impossible if the egg is fresh…and as I DON’T keep two dozen + eggs around the house, I had to run to the store for a couple of cartons.  They are cooling now, and even though I put vinegar in the boiling water, I don’t expect to have an easy time peeling the damn things.  Kid’s gonna be taking some jacked-up looking eggs to school and she has no one to blame but herself.)

The whole thing reminds me of my friend Leslie’s deviled-egg-plate story…which has become my basis for determining who is, and who is not, a SOUTHERN LADY.

You see Leslie (and one of our mutual friends and co-worker, Lisa) were in New Orleans for a conference.  Environmental Engineering or Resource Recovery or Voo-doo, or whatever.  Anyway, they had decided to check out the sites while they were down there.  Leslie had heard about some bar that was supposed to be the oldest bar in the United States or something: Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop.  Turns out it is also a gay bar, but that’s really neither here nor there….

Anyway, Lisa and Leslie skip on down Bourbon Street and enter Lafitte’s.  The bartender is conversing with someone, but greets them and ascertains very quickly that Lisa and Leslie are from the South.  Lisa is from Tennessee and Leslie from right here in Alabama.  Leslie has THE perfect southern voice…all syrup-y drawl and everything.*  So anyway, as they sat down, he asked them, “Do you have an egg-plate?”

“Huh?” they both replied.

Bartender: “An egg-plate.  That you put deviled eggs on, do you have one?”

L & L: “We do, why do you ask?”

Bartender: “Are you ladies from the South?”

L & L: “Yes?????”

Bartender, turning to his friend: “Told you.”
L & L: “Ummmm….what?”
Bartender: “I was just telling my friend that all Southern Ladies own an egg plate.  At least one.”

So of course, when they got back to our office the following week, they took a poll to see who did, and who did not, own egg plates.  The only non-egg-plate-owner???? Susan, from Wisconsin. Since the telling of this tale, I have periodically checked it’s validatity…and it’s absolutely true…if you were born in the South (and raised right) you own at least one egg plate.  I own three.  A plain, clear glass Anchor Hocking one. (If you’re not Southern, you also might not know what Anchor Hocking is…it’s basically the cheap glassware stuff in Walmart) a pretty ceramic one, and a “traveling” one.  I can’t locate my clear one right now, but here’s the other two:

*A word about my friend Leslie.  Yes, she has a sweet, sweet Southern voice.  Once a person we were having a teleconference with told her “You sound just like that Pothole on that commercial.” But Leslie also has like an IQ of 217 or something crazy.  She’s also about 6 foot tall, beautiful, and has, on at least two occasions (that I know about) intimidated grown men into crying. I love her.

Update:
While I was making the 48 deviled eggs, the kiddo was baking two dozen devil's food cupcakes.  All of this was for English class and is somehow associated with The Great Gatsby. If someone can draw me a clearer picture of that association, please do.  I'm totally lost.
Anyway, the smell of baking chocolate cupcakes, though normally one of life's most wonderful aromas does NOT mingle well with the odor of boiled eggs. My whole kitchen smelled like a chocolate fart.  Then, for some reason, I thought that lighting a white gardenia candle would somehow help. (It didn't). To compound matters, while peeling the damned fresh eggs, I mangled several of them.  I absentmindedly passed about three of them over to the dog who was clinging right to my side while I worked, in hopes of catching a tidbit should one drop to the floor.  He's kind of my constant cooking companion.  Anyway, I was feeding him the third egg and realized what the consequences of letting a 70 lb Golden Retriever have boiled eggs was likely to be.  If he starts up the flatulence that I imagine he will, we may have to burn the house down to get rid of the combination of smells.

Second Update: Apparently, deviled eggs were considered de rigueur (or as we say in my circles "FANCY!") back in 1922 and were served at upscale parties. I'm guessing that devil's food cake (or cupcakes?) were also very swanky. I'm still a little unclear why they were celebrating The Great Gatsby on Valentine's Day.

Mardi Gras to All Y'all



As the Mardi Gras season approaches, I thought I’d share the following seasonal story with you.

Disclaimer:  All of the funny stuff is Annette…

The weekend prior to these documented events, I had hosted a Reveler’s Ball party at my house.  We have a Reveler’s Krewe in my hometown…and though I am not a Krewe member myself, my good friend Annette is & she never fails to invite me to the annual Ball. (All the fun and benefits and none of the work…woohoo for me!)  After several years of having all the fun and doing nothing…I thought it would be fun (er, fair) to host a pre-ball party for Annette’s troupe. For those of you unfamiliar with the Mardi Gras world, I’m sure this is not making a lot of sense.  Lemme pause a minute and explain:

Alabama was actually where the whole Mardi Gras stuff started here in the states (Mobile, AL was the actual home of the first Mardi Gras festival)…but New Orleans is now more famous for theirs.  Lots of places have their own version. Anyway, although we do not have a parade or anything…the Krewe in our town does have an annual ball.  Active members of the Krewe (they are all ladies) form up into groups and each group performs a skit in line with a chosen “theme.”  “Sustainers” (former Krewe members after they have served their time as active) as well as guests attend the ball, watch the skits and generally spend the evening dancing and imbibing adult beverages.  Many people around town who are attending the ball have pre-ball parties where food is served and those who wish can get a head start on their partying mood.  I kept the party in line with the theme of the year (The Groovy 70’s or Hippy Chic or something along those lines).  I had the whole house kitted out with hanging beads in all of the doorways, lava lamps, funky lights and even a disco ball. I tried to do a lot of 70’s era food (the fondue was a bust…I tried to keep it melted with a can of sterno and it didn’t even taste like cheese anymore.  It was more like a runny, gooey plastic/petroleum paste). Fortunately, many of the guests had offered to help me out by brining dishes with them.  A mutual friend of mine & Annette, Jenn, brought a King Cake.

It was DIVINE.  Annette immediately demanded the recipe.  A week later, the following was reported:

_____________________________________________
From: *****, Annette S.
Sent: Monday, March 02,
To: ****, Jennifer
Cc: ****, Marianne
Subject: the king cake

Ah, Martha, I mean Jenn ~

The King Cake: recipe for disaster

According to your recipe, it’s “very easy” and “bakes up beautifully”….please believe me when I say that this is in no way meant to be disrespectful to you, but to expose myself for the complete and total retard that I am in the kitchen.

I finally began work on the masterpiece last night, as I had not had the time to devote to such a creative undertaking until that point.  Hands washed and ingredients at the ready, I dove in with the zeal of Edward Scissorhands attacking an overgrown shrub and walking away from an elegant topiary

Let’s start with the cinnamon rolls themselves, shall we?  I never realized just how much cinnamon-y goo came in each can of rolls!  Let me tell you, by the time it was all said and done, that stuff was packed underneath my nails so firmly that I needed a toothbrush to get it out! 

Back to the rolls….I unrolled them, as instructed, and began trying to seal the seams with a fork.  Either my technique was wrong, the fork was wrong, or I somehow selected seam-resistant cinnamon rolls…in any event, they were defiant – almost in a mocking way – and refused to adhere properly.  After struggling for what seemed like an eternity, I proceeded to the next step, which was….

The filling.  This part was easy; the most difficult aspect was keeping my fingers out of the bowl.  Then there was the improvisation on my part – AKA “if some filling is good, then MORE filling is better!”  That’s right, I had the brilliant notion to add the cup o’ icing that came with the rolls…slapped it right on top of the cream cheese filling I’d already lovingly spread on the refuse-to-seam cinnamon roll plank.

Next, I tried rolling it up, which was pretty interesting, given the pound or so of filling inside.  I finally managed to form a log-shaped slab, which I then twisted (all the while, gooey white filling was plopping out everywhere) and then transported to the baking sheet.  By the time said log was placed on the baking sheet, it appeared to be, oh, around 6 feet long – not surprising, considering the intense manipulation the poor thing had undergone. 

Then I repeated these steps – minus the extra filling – on two more cans of rolls.  I had them all on the cookie sheet and laid them out in hopes of forming an oval (which inexplicably morphed into an oblong-ish shape, given the fact that laid end-to-end, the three sections would have stretched about 3/10 of a mile) and then began in vain to seal the ends together to form a continuous loop.  HA!  What made it even funnier was that the one section – the one with the extra filling – was really thick, while its counterparts were lean.  Oh well.

Into the oven, then out right on schedule (by this time, it was 10:15 last night)…the extra filling had oozed all over the baking sheet, but no problem. 

It was too late to wait for it to cool, make icing, etc., so I covered it with foil and a “no touchy” note.  I tried sticking the baby in, but he jumped out, whining that the cake was too damn ugly.

Will report back after icing and then taste-testing (or is it test-tasting?) tonight….

Signed,

Baking Must Not Be My Forte

Annette ****

_____________________________________________
From: ****, Jennifer
Sent: Monday, March 02
To: *****, Annette S.
Cc: ******, Marianne SAIC CMA-ANAD (PKI)
Subject: RE: the king cake

Oops, I forgot to mention…..

You’re not supposed to consume any alcoholic beverages during any part of this process!!!

I have a feeling this is where you went wrong.

I apologize for leaving out this very important instruction, and I take full responsibility for whatever the end result may be!

Jennifer *****

Well, there may well have been traces of alcohol remaining in my system from the previous night’s Mardi Gras celebration, but other than that (believe it or not) the only beverages I consumed were Vitamin Water (Revive!) and good ol’ H2O.  In other words, it’s just me.

Annette ****

From: *****, Annette S.
Sent: Tuesday, March 02

To: ****, Jennifer
Cc: ****, Marianne
Subject: the king cake

The King Cake: Recipe for Disaster

part deux

So I get home last night and decide to revisit my attempts to create an edible masterpiece.  Trying to stay positive and approaching the situation with a fresh perspective, I gathered the necessary icing ingredients (sans purple sprinkles) and began my work.  First, I threw a box of confectioner’s sugar into a bowl, then added vanilla flavoring and milk “to desired consistency” – which ended up being pretty consistent with, oh, milk itself.  Hmmm…more sugar?  Sure!  Grabbed another box, adding about half, and mixed away.  A little lumpy, but definitely thicker. 

Place baby in cake.  Baby jumps out.  Stick baby back in cake, holding him there till he falls asleep. 

Time to ice the cake.  Guess what!?!  No spoon required!  Pour the icing onto cake, trying to make pretty patterns and cover the imperfections of the cake.  Not in the cards.  Watery icing trickles down sides of cake and pools onto baking sheet.  Niiiiiice.  Cover with sprinkles anyway.  Green!  Gold!  Pink!  Mardi Gras is over, so colors no big deal.

Taste cake.  Very good, but icing tastes oddly similar to potatoes.  No complaints from child or spouse, though – they LOVE IT! 

Note to self: next year, buy all ingredients + big bottle of wine, invite Jenn and Marianne over.  Jenn makes cake while MA and I cheer!

Annette *****

Sounds like a plan to me!

I find it hard to believe that you had this much trouble sober…

I’m certain you were drunk baking and just won’t admit it.

Jennifer *****

Me & Annette Revellin' it Up. Circa 2009

The Animal

My office, Tuesday Morning...

Me: You will not believe how incredibly lame I was this weekend…and it cost me money.

Jenn: Ha!  I spent money on something very lame too.  I bet I was lamer than you.

Me: No way, I spent $600 on a Dyson vacuum cleaner…the one especially made for animal hair

Jenn: Okay, that’s bad.  I just spent $150 on a pot.  To cook in.

Me: What kind of pot costs $150?

Jenn:  A Le Creuset.  They’re the cast iron enameled cookware…I’ve been wanting one for ages but couldn’t justify it.  This one was 40% off.  At least you needed the Dyson.

Me: Okay, but I’m lamer because I spent my entire Sunday evening vacuuming the house & I enjoyed it.

Jenn: I sat my pot on the counter, poured myself a glass of wine and just looked at it, thinking how pretty it was.

Me: I kept yelling at Jeff, “Don’t touch my bag of dirt! I want to show the kid when she gets home.”

Jenn: Okay, that’s pretty bad.

Me: Also, I weighed it after I was done showing it off to the kid.  I sucked up nine pounds of pet hair and dirt.  I’m shocked that I was living in such squalor.  It’s a wonder adult protective services hasn’t been called in.

Jenn: Well, at least you have proof that you needed your Dyson.

Me: I find myself singing "I want to vacuum like an animal" to the tune of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer."

Jenn: That's a little disturbing.

Me: Yeah...I know.

Behold: "The Animal" Dyson model DC41.  At least the name is cool.