These things made me giggle.

 

Random selection of my nerd humor, courtesy of one of my pinterest boards. You're welcome.

Nothing but rim.

Spotted on my walk home from the L.


That's a lot of stolen bike. But one mighty U-lock.

It wasn't me.

Neighbors in my condo building are cranky. And cranky people leave passive aggressive notes. Specifically, cranky people leave notes on the bulletin board at the entry of the building. This is today's.



So far there have been nasty notes to a unit owner who's dog was spotted in the back yard (egads!). Complaints about stolen cupcakes. (Seriously, who leaves a package of cupcakes in a public lobby of a 91-unit building for 2+ days and expects to find them?) And other assorted gripes about bad neighboritis.

Now, I don't meant to belittle the thefts. Afterall, I lost my beloved mountain bike two years ago to a thief who got into a back stairwell and rode it away. But the anonymous notes? Really?

Ah, life a condo.

I speak for the trees.

I felt like I should save this for Earth Day, but oh well. I came across these tree trunks-turned-public folk art. Is it weird to be captivated by the eyes? They're so ... Well, I love them.



Since it's Holy Week and Passover and I'm trying to be extra mindful about the Celtic spirituality idea of finding holy in the ordinary, I thought I'd remind us of this quote from the Lorax:

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.

In which I royally piss off the universe.

It was long, draining and downright shitty day work today. On the bus ride home, which, btw, dropped me off at my house roughly 13 hours after I left in the morning, I decided to turn the shittasticness into sparkle and bake cookies for my coworkers and spend the night working on baby quilts for my pregger girl friends.

What a dumb idea that was.

I probably should have realized the universe was against me when I saw that I had only 3/4 of a cup of flour. (How the HELL did that happen? I'm a self-professed compulsive baker.) Luckily, I had some extra whole wheat flour lying around, which OMG would make my cookies HEALTHY! I started making my modified Toll House recipe and then ... DAMMIT, I have one tiny, hard-as-nails chunk of brown sugar.

This of course, is not the end of the world. I mean, any reasonable person would have put on her boots (Oops, left them at work), her coat, and scarf and gloves and hat and trudged to the damn store. But have I mentioned it's cold as balls here? And snowing? And OMG I WANT COOKIES NOW.

Since by this point I want nothing more than to eat my weight in cookie dough as I try to shed a bad day, I keep going. I try softening the brown sugar. It doesn't want to cooperate. It gets sorta less rock like and I put it in mixer. And then I make the critical mistake of trying to mash up the chunks while the beater thingies are beating.

Note to self. It's best to do this step when the mixer isn't ACTIVELY mixing. Because this is the end result of that effort.


What the hell is that, you ask? Why, it's a completely mangled and bent attachment to my standup mixer. Fucking A....

So now, let's recap:
_ Long day.
_ Bad day.
_ Critical ingredient shortage.
_ Broken forever mixer.
_ Shitty-tasting cookies thanks to ingredients shortage (who the HELL wants whole wheat cookies anyway? What? Should I serve them with a side of tofu and wheatgrass? Phhsaw.)
_ And one very grumpy Noodles.

Epic effing fail.

P.S. After this series of events, there's no way in hell I'm letting my fingers near a razor-sharp rotary cutter.

I am not a stupid girl. I'm just prone to idiocy.

I have bad luck with my condo. Like, baaaad luck.

Last summer there was the decomposing corpse of my dead upstairs neighbor that smelled the place up for weeks. (Not to mention the A+ disinfecting work done in the unit, which is a story for another time.) Last winter is was a snafu with the gas company that resulted in me not having heat until December. In CHICAGO.

This year, it's my electricity.

I came home yesterday to find that half the condo was in the dark. Unfortunately, it was the half that had all of my appliances. No fridge. No stove. No washing machine. No sewing machine (cry.) No cable, TV, nothing. I went and checked out the circuit breaker, flipped the switches back and forth and .... nada. (Oooh, this is fun I thought. I can be half Amish for the night.)

Rock on.

So this morning being half Amish got old. After a frantic call and e-mail with the management company, I started calling electricians.

Most of the conversations went something like this:

Me: I can't figure out why half my electrical sockets won't work. There was some power outage yesterday and I tried using the breaker box and I just can't get it to turn back on. I think something might be fried inside.

Them: Uh, did you, like, try flipping the breaker?

Me: Yes.

Them: So you actually touched each of the switches and moved them back and forth?

Me: OMG! Are you listening to me!? I'm not a moron. (This reminds of conversations with tech support when you say your computer is misbehaving and they asked you if you rebooted it. Uh, no. I hadn't thought about that!!!)

Anyway, so I wind up getting an electrician to come out, because at $100 for a house call plus parts, he's the best deal I can find. He comes over. We go downstairs. He looks at the box and says, uh, your power's been turned off.

And then I'm like, yeeeeessss. This is why you're here. I don't know why the power is off.

And he responds, no, it's actually BEEN turned off. See this tag? It means the power company came and SHUT. IT. OFF.

At which point, I'm just blown away. I live in a condo building. I don't pay any electrical bill. It's part of my condo fees. And also, if they turned off my power, why are my lights and my ceiling fan still working?

So he busts out his screw driver, yanks off the lock from the utility company, puts it back on and leaves 5 minutes later with my $100 check.

Now I'm pretty much freaking out. When I bought my place two years ago, I swore someone said electricity was included in my ridiculously high condo fees. I busted out the paperwork and see reference to air conditioning being included. Then it starts to sink in.

Either because of misinformation or misunderstanding, I was supposed to open an electric account when the old owner closed hers. I never did. For two years -- TWO YEARS -- I've been getting electricity without knowing I was supposed to pay for it.

Then I lost it and just total meltdown crying fit on the phone with my dad. (Yeah, yeah. I know. Cliche. Whatever.) I don't want to steal. But I'm terrified of what this bill is going to be like when I get it. It was a completely innocent mistake. Should I have figured it out before hand? OMG. OMG. OMG.

So I call the power company and try to explain the situation to them. I say that I know they probably get a lot of far-out sob stories. And this is a far-out sob story, but unlike the slackers who are trying to get out something, this one is ACTUALLY true. They're sorta baffled themselves. So I set up an account for my unit, give them the date I moved in, and they back date it to me.

Now I have to wait until the next meter reading to figure out what the bill will be. So, I'm terrified about the fact that there will be commas in this bill. And that there will be big numbers BEFORE the comma. And I'm praying they have a payment plan.

Also, I'm now considering writing a book called "Confessions of an Idiot Homeowner."

Sigh. FML.

Ack. Gag. Shower.

Is there anything more lame than a baby shower? (Except maybe a blatantly gift-grubbing-instead-of-celebrating-the-couple bridal shower?) I mean, oooh, smelly diaper games! Let's wrap toilet paper around the mom-to-be's belly. Guess how many (insert candy here) are in the bottle? Mawhahahaha.

I say this because as of about 20 minutes ago, my friend Ginny and I are currently PLANNING a baby shower. Of course, neither of us are married. Or have children. Or, uh, for the most part, like children. But we love our friend Kathleen and are dedicated to the cause of planning a decidedly non-sucky soiree. We want it to have, as Ginny says, "elegance with an edge."

This leads me to several new-found bits of wisdom: No matter what terms you Google, whether it's "hip baby shower," "chic baby shower," "modern baby shower," even, cringe, "hipster baby shower" ... THEY ALL PRODUCE LAME RESULTS. (Full disclosure, I searched "anti-baby-shower" and got exactly one promising hit.)

Seriously. I know I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Women are smart. And dynamic. And funny. And creative. And we get together to try to figure out that "erpcaiif" is really just a jumbled-up version of "pacifier" or guess what the melted candy bar is that we stuck in a diaper??? REALLY!?

Hostess etiquette my ass.

So, now I'm stumped on what exactly we should be doing. Ginny, the epicurean, is going to deal with food. I'm in charge of activities. (Incidently, we're stilling working on important thing, such as dates. Locations. Etc.) I was thinking of creating snarky/saucy madlibs? I know there's the whole decorate-a-onesy thing. Maybe having everyone offer some words-of-wisdom for the new mom? Something involving children's literature? Maybe a game of "Celebrity Baby or Just a Noun?" (Ahem: Apple. Trick question, it's both.)

I don't know. And Google won't help. That's why I need you. Save me. Save us. Save the shower.

A Picture's Worth 1,000 Words

Big ups to Design is Mine for posting these yesterday, which caused a tremendous amount of uncaffeinated giggles when I woke up this a.m. Couldn't have said it better myself.








Art work is from Carolyn Alexander's "Haughty Bitches."

Still feeling feisty and full of venom? Check out this virtual voodoo doll. Not that, uh, you know, I'd ever use such a thing. Or be able to tell you authoritatively that the virtual staple gun is a fabulous option. Right. :-)

I think my dog is stoned.

Do you ever stop to to wonder exactly what the hell kind of hijinks your pets are up to when you're not there?

And if you come home from a long day at the office, to find your dog looking like this, while obsessively carting around some kind of beat-up-squeaky-rodent-looking toy that they seemingly stole from your neighbor, should you wonder if they know something about the world that you don't?



Just saying...

In which panic sets in.

Me: One overweight, undertrained, overambitious, underprepared girl.
It: 1/2 mile swim; 12 mile bike, 3.1 mile jog (in my case, slow amble.)

And oh my God. It's this Sunday.

What. Was. I. Thinking?

And now I'm... terrified is probably a good word. Another appropriate phrase might be "scared shitless." Also: losing my mind. And trying not to completely melt down?

So what if I had a moment of kick-ass girl power when I thought I was strong and could handle it? That was before. But now it's here.

And I'm obsessing about everything.

EVERYTHING.

What will I eat between now and then? What will my race day breakfast be? (Tentative plan: whole wheat bagel with peanut butter and a banana.) I'm mired in the logistics of getting a rental car. What time do I pick it up so I can get to Wisconsin in time for the mandatory orientation on Saturday, and get back to Chicago with enough time to spare on Sunday before my 24-hour window is up? Will I have a safe and dry place to stash my camera so I can at least have a picture to remember the day and offer visual proof to the world that I didn't chicken out and show up? What about a little iPod, so I am not alone in my head for the 2.5 hours I suspect this thing will take me? Will I feel like a big, jiggly giant among the tiny, svelte muscley tri chicks? Should I put on sunblock? What if I forget sunblock? What if I get skin cancer? Can I find some way to get my goggles to quit leaking and quit fogging over? What if it rains? What if I get kicked in the face during the swim? What if I get some weird pond fungus? What if I fall on my bike? WHAT IF I'M THE LAST ONE TO FINISH?

I'd be lying if I didn't secretly wish for some kind of freak accident that causes me to sprain an ankle between now and then. Sure, I'd also be really disappointed in myself that happened. But whatever. It just seems like such a less horrifying option. (It's like that time in 9th grade, when I was convinced my football-playing crush would ask me to homecoming and instead he asked someone else, and I was left going to the dance with a date who asked me if semi-formal meant his jeans were Ok. And then I wished I had appendicitis, so I wouldn't have to go, even though I had a dress, which I was sure at the time made me look stunning enough to exact retribution on the football player who, despite asking me out on my first date, NEVER SPOKE TO ME AGAIN. Ok. Or maybe it's not like that. But ... )

Whatever. I'm not rational. I'm petrified. I'm going to do it. I think I can do it. I want to do it. But oh my God. And it's only Monday.

Word up, peeps

I haven't been blogging lately because, really, I haven't had that much I've wanted to say. I go through phases where I'm typing and chatting fool. And then, I'm just silent for a bit.

When I'm in that strange period of Noodles' quiet time, I tend to get extra introspective and philosophical. Which, I guess is weird because you'd think at times like that, I'd WANT to be writing down my thoughts.

So, since I'm still not feeling too chatty, I thought I'd share the topics I've been ruminating on lately....

_ Am I egocentric? Do I talk about myself? Does thinking I'm egocentric prove the fact that I AM egocentric?

_ I haven't done real grocery shopping in more than a month. I REALLY need to go soon because running to neighborhood convenience store for milk, eggs and butter is not the most cost-effective venture.

_ How long do I have to send birthday thank you notes? Because, er, I turned 28 and haven't written them yet. Oops?

_ I've ordered a ton of fabric lately, but can't bring myself to cut into it. In fact, outside of making headbands, I haven't sewed much at all lately. Bummer.

_ See how many points have started with "I" or have "I" in the first few words. See point 1.

_ Is there a way to teach Macy Mutt to not bark at doorbells on TV? Bad enough she goes apeshit whenever anyone is in our landing.

_ Is anyone else oddly addicted to NCIS? Who is, you know, under the age of 55? And if not, what the HELL is wrong with me?

In which I learn things.

Since the triathlon is less than two months away and I'm, as I said, petrified of the running portion, I took my first training "run" today. I use the word "run" loosely, since I mostly just shuffled for 60 seconds at a time, before spending 90 seconds walking. I'm following this plan by Cool Runnings and also listening to a training podcast I found on iTunes. The music is a little weird, but it tells me when to run, when to stop, when to walk. I am, if anything, excellent at following directions, so this works nicely for me.

Of course, roughly 3 minutes in I was already learning things.

1) The Macy Mutt makes a HORRIBLE running partner.
Mainly because about eight seconds into each running interval, she either needed to pee, poop, sniff, or do something distracting that meant she couldn't keep up with me. And she became progressively more uncooperative at each interval, refusing to walk down some blocks unless they were on the direct path to the condo. At the last interval, she gave up completely and planted her yellow butt outside the front door while I ran back and forth as far as her extend-a-leash would let me for the rest of the 60 seconds.

2) Boobs are not the place to store an iPod.
After I got dressed to go out, and I realized I didn't have any pockets. And I had a set of keys and iPod to carry. I clipped the keys to Macy's leash and stashed the iPod in the only place I could think of where it wouldn't get loose and crash to the ground. Yup, I stuck that baby right in the cleavage. (BTW, having storage space in the boobs about the only good part of being painfully well-endowed.) Unfortunately, about 25 minutes in I discovered that boob sweat and circuitry don't mix well. And I'm currently praying for it to start working again soon and welcome suggestions on how to fix it.

3) Granny panties are where it's at.
I'm a low-cut briefs kind of girl and have banished every pair of granny panties from my dresser. Although, let's just say, low-cut briefs don't appreciate the jiggling that comes with running and, in a plea for freedom, decided to just roll down in the midst of the run. Lovely feeling, really. Also fun: trying to readjust your undies on the street without looking like a pervert or like you're soliciting.

4) Running for 60 seconds isn't hard.
Running for 3.2 miles probably will be. Gah, what was I thinking?

By the way, I promise not to decide this blog to postings only about this stupid adventure. My friend once told me she'd de-friended people on Facebook for only "posting about how many goddamn miles they run." Will. Not. Be. That. Girl.

That is all.

In which I am stupid.

Happy birthday to me! Yup, after roughly 364 days of anticipation, I turned 28 today and celebrated as only I do. Mainly, by being incredibly, monumentally and epically stupid.

How? Well, er, I kind of signed up for a triathlon today. Yeah. My 200+ pound self thought it was a good idea to huff-and-puff my way through a half-mile swim, 12 mile bike ride, and 3.2 mile run. On, wait for it, July 12.

If any of you are all athletic (or can read a calendar), you know that July 12 is really, really freaking soon. Which means I should have started training, oh, I don't know ... two months ago. Ooops.

I spent a decade growing up as a competitive swimmer (ah, back in the skinny-and-in-shape days of yore) and can pound out a 12 mile bike ride no problem right now. So I'm not worried _ too much, anyway _ about those legs. It's the run that has me absolutely, positively scared shitless. See... I don't run. Like, ever. Not even if I'm being chased. I'm fairly sure if someone tried to attack me on the street and my options were to run away or sit down and take a breather, I'd park my butt on a bench and be all, "excuse me, can I help you with something??"

You think I exaggerate, but it's true. In high school, at the pinnacle of my in-shape-and-athletic-days, I thought it'd be better to be the goalie on the field hockey team than to have to spend hours of practice every day running up, down and around the field. I was perfectly content to strap on 20 pounds of sweaty, heavy gear and let girls in kilts hurl hard balls at me than to have to spend 90 minutes a day running and doing sprints and drills.

So as part two of my present to myself, I bought myself these cool-ass kicks.


Now, before you go roll your eyes at the fact that I bought pink and white sneakers ("How obvious, Noodles...") you should know I went to a real, honest-to-goodness running store and got fitted by a very nice runner type who determined these were best for my weird feet.

And after my friend Tina convinced me that it would be a good idea to do this, I also put in an order for a tri-suit. Which, by the way, are possibly the most hideous things on the planet, aside from those crazy "modesty swimsuits" the Duggars wear on TV.


Please note, this model looks significantly better in this get-up than I ever will.

And finally, because I am a huge nerd who believes in research, research, research, I'm FINALLY reading the book I picked up a few years ago when I first got this crazy idea in my head.


It's actually great. Jayne is funny and snarky and I feel certain we would get along splendidly while shopping for god knows what together before getting martinis.

So, yes. That was my birthday. Well, there was that, and the fabulous and lovely gifts, calls, messages, cards, voicemails, text messages and other loveliness that my friends and family showered on me. Even the mutt got in on the act, but letting me sleep in until 8 a.m. All in all, pretty splendid.

So, let's just hope that this triathlon doesn't kill me so I can survive another 364 days to bask in birthday love next year.