Tag Archives: I’m a weirdo

The Nose Knows

When I saw a woman in front of me at the store the other day smell the packs of gum to help her decide which kind to buy, I felt like I found a new friend.

Why?

Because a majority of the decisions I make on a daily basis are at least partially the result of the “smell test.” My first instinct when given something—be it food, a puppy or even a candle specifically labeled “unscented”—is to smell it.

I’m just a “smelly” person.

But lucky for me—and especially lucky for YOU—the ladies over In The Powder Room accept my neurosis and even encourage it by publishing my post on this very topic.

So clear out those sinuses, click the link and go read about how if you see me spraying an air freshener in a store aisle and quickly sticking my nose in the mist, smelling a fake plant or subtly sniffing the cute guy in the produce aisle, there’s no reason to be alarmed.

smell

The nose knows, my friends.

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Door of Doom

What do you see when you look at this picture?

fridge2b

Most people would probably say they see an average refrigerator, maybe some cat treats on top or the Ove Glove lovingly hung on the side. But I am not most people, and when I look at this picture I see two things:

1) An arctic abode to house my beloved eats and drinks

2) An evil ninja-like appliance of pain that’s plotting against me 

Let me explain.

The other day I was preparing for some couchgating and enthusiastically threw open the door to the refrigerator to grab some hippie fare. However, in my enthusiasm, I neglected to realize I was enthusiastically throwing open the freezer door and slammed the damn thing into my head.

fridge1b

It was a direct hit.

A drive-by dooring, so to speak.

I was knocked to the floor—not because I lost consciousness as my head enthusiastically stopped the door’s momentum, but because I stumbled backward and tripped on the cat.

As I sat on the floor I noticed three things:

1) Several grains of uncooked rice remained under the cupboard ledge on the floor from when I spilled it—never sneeze while measuring it out–which leads me to believe I need to sit down with the dust buster and re-evaluate it’s job description.

2) The cat was not helpful in this situation a la Lassie in fetching me ice, but was instead alternating exasperated glances between the treat bags on top of the fridge and my stunned skinny ass on the floor.

Noted, my feline friend. Noted.

3) I suddenly saw two fridges in front of me, which initially excited me — two fridges full of goodies!— until I realized it was because of the pain.

I gingerly stood up, made my way to the mirror and found a dark bruise and two-inch lump on my forehead. If it had happened a week later right before Halloween, I would have been thrilled. Easy costume! But seeing as I still had a week to wait, I knew that I needed a story that wasn’t so lame.

I thought perhaps I could say I was saving a kitten stranded in a tree and bumped my head while bending over to perform CPR, but given my abusive relationship with gravity, I knew that nobody would buy it.

Considering everyone knows how the small woodland creatures in my yard show a blatant disrespect for my authority, I figured a wrestling match with a squirrel just might fly.

But I think I could take a squirrel, so I moved on to using a bear or a cougar. However, bears aren’t that common and I didn’t want people to think I meant “cougar” like a horny old woman, as that would completely change the context of this injury, among other things.

So I settled on a badger. If anyone asks, I was wresting a badger…to save a kitten from a horny old woman.

And when you think about it, my actions — or at least my delusions about my actions —were really quite heroic, no?

Anyway, once I settled on a story I decided I should put some ice on my throbbing head, only to realize the irony of the fact that the ice was in the freezer—the scene of the crime! But I thought of the kitten I could have saved and threw open the freezer door—slightly less enthusiastically this time—and numbed out the pain for a bit.

At least I think that’s what I did.

The details are fuzzy.

Damn badger.

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Holy Sheet

We all have certain chores that we don’t mind doing. Some people prefer washing dishes over vacuuming or taking out the trash over dusting the shelves. If you have more than one person at home, these tasks can be split up accordingly.

But when you live alone—or with a cat who still hasn’t pulled her own weight—all of these tasks fall to you. And aside from ironing, I have to say one thing I find extremely tedious is changing the sheets on my bed.

Let’s examine the process.

It starts with simply ripping off the covers and throwing the pillows and blankets in a heap on the floor with dramatic flair—and about 1/100th of the time it will take me to remake the bed.

It’s at this point I realize there’s no turning back and  swallow a small lump of panic. With the old sheets in the basket and the new sheets still folded in a pile, I am now committed to following through with the process if I want to sleep on sheets ever again.

Ever again!

Exhausted by the thought, I take the sheets from the shelf and let them rest on the bed for a bit while I rest for a bit on my own.

sheet3

I will usually get (intentionally) distracted by something more interesting like watching the squirrels and cursing Disney movies for leaving me so disillusioned about small woodland creatures and their willingness to help me with chores.

But I steel myself up and return to my task, plowing through the bottom sheet and two pillows and fighting with the corners of death.

sheet4b

You know what I’m talking about.

The only thing harder than fitting the elastic-ish corners of the bottom sheet across each of the four ends of the mattress without one popping off every time is actually folding the bottom sheet when it comes out of the dryer.

Tedious.

Enter a quick break to test out the sheets and pillows, at which point I stare at the ceiling and decide I should probably wipe off the ceiling fan at that exact minute.

About 20 minutes later I continue on with my journey of placing the top sheet on with equal amounts of sheet on either side of the bed.

sheet5b

But no matter how hard I try, I end up walking back multiple times to pull the sheet a little bit more on one side before tucking it under the mattress.

If it’s too short on one side, I end up pulling the whole thing out when I get into bed. If I pull it too far up the front, my feet will poke out of the bottom and there’s a good chance I’ll wake up with the excess sheet wrapped around my head and panic that the cat’s trying to smother me.

Yup, still single, people.

Anyway, once sheet side distribution is complete, I triumphantly throw on the blanket with the flair of a matador waving his flag. After ensuring equal blanket distribution—see sheet step above—the task is finally complete a mere 45 minutes or so later.

sheet6

Holy sheet.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it, but at least now the bed will have sheets.

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zazzle.jpg

 

Stop, Collaborate and Listen

You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I’m kind of like the skinny white Polish girl version of Snoop Dogg.

snoop-dogg

This is where I add the mandatory disclaimer or “Hugs, not drugs.”

No, I don’t have dreads, a criminal record or say “shizzle my nizzle”that often, anyway—and my skills leaned more towards piano than profanity-laced rap when I was younger, but straight up yo.  I’m kind of hardcore.

Okay, not “hardcore” exactly. But for what it’s worth, I’m not one of those people that thinks the word “rap” is missing a silent “c” at the beginning.

True to my commitment issues, there’s no one kind of music I like enough to claim as the best. There’s good country and then there’s “poke your eyes out with a pitchfork” country. There’s good alternative, and then there’s “poke someone else in the eye with a guitar pick” alternative. Each genre has ups and it’s downs—including rap.

But this girl loves her Eminem, so much so that she would put aside her spinsterhood for him and engage in a long distance relationship that involved a weekly phone call and mandatory date night that did not involve sleeping over.

Eminem

I still need my space.

I also like Kid Rock, so as you can tell I’m a Michigan girl who lived in Detroit for a bit at heart. However, I have no interest in creating a lukewarm distant semi-romantic relationship with Kid Rock.

I would rather date an actual rock.

But unfortunately, other than a menacing looking gnome in my garden, that’s about where my street cred ends.

I have no idea what Drake “sings”—for lack of a better term—but if some old school LL Cool J comes on, I can bust out with every word and be instantly transported back to middle/high school.

Then once the horror-filled memories of middle school seep from my brain, I can put on a thugtastic version of Salt-n-Pepa’s “Shoop,” “ Push It” or “Whatta Man.” And even though I can’t remember why I put my keys in the fridge, I can rap every word to Arrested Development’s “Mr. Wendal” from 1992, the song from which our ghetto rescue cat Wendell (spelling change) was named, may her one-toothed, crooked crotched furry little body RIP.

But you have to understand where I’m coming from.

Vanilla-Ice

Nice eyebrows, Homeboy.

I grew up with a white boy from Dallas telling me to, “Stop, collaborate and listen”—all three at the same time?—and a black dude named Stanley wearing Hammer pants reminding me I was, “Too Legit to Quit.” There was hardly any profanity and instead of their pants hanging off of their asses, they pretty much just wore them backwards a la Kris Kross.

Now they have “99 Problems” and one of mine is the fact that I can’t understand a damn word that most of them say.  Another one is the fact that when flipping around on the radio recently, both “Baby Got Back” and “Bust a Move” were playing ON THE OLDIES STATION. 

Sigh.

Shizzle my nizzle, indeed.

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Abby’s Ark

Considering I’m pretty much a minimalist when it comes to everything in my life—save for words, as my rambles demonstrate—it will come as no surprise that the chances of me appearing on “Hoarders” are about as likely as me appearing on “The Bachelorette.”

But with that said, I often feel the need to have at least two of the same things around. Not so I can use both of them at the same time, but so I know that if something happens to the first one, I won’t be left without.

Because of course, anything that could produce even a minor inconvenience should be avoided at all costs.

For example, I have two Hot Shots. If you don’t know what a Hot Shot is, then you haven’t really lived life to the fullest. When your “happy time” revolves around tea every day, this thing lets you heat up water in less than a minute.

hotshot1

I bought the first one at Target a couple of years ago and then they stopped carrying them. My mom realized the gravity of this situation and ordered one for me online as a surprise almost a year ago. I haven’t had to use it yet, but it’s waiting in my pantry.

My pantry also has a backup vegetable/rice steamer that I ordered six months ago when I feared mine was on the fritz (as I use mine at least twice a day), a backup toaster, an extra case of my tea, etc. And I don’t think I have to say that when it comes to food, you will never open up my fridge to find an absence of any of my staples.

But I do have only one fridge.

I will buy a new stick of deodorant, but use the old one until the container scrapes the inside of my armpits. I will squeeze every last drop of a $1.99-tube of toothpaste like it cost me $20. I would use a tube of chapstick until the plastic hurts my lips, but I still maintain that anyone who can keep a tube of chapstick around until it’s gone without losing it is some sort of genius.

Newsflash: I am not a genius, as evidenced by the fact that I read a to-do list note to “clean stove” as “clean Steve” the other day.

Anyway, when it comes to blogging, I continue this doubled-up pattern of neurosis. I like to have another post “waiting in the wings” before I publish one so that I can a) not stress that I have no new ideas or b) hurry up and publish something new if my last post sucked.

My brain doesn’t always let things work out that way—see “I am not a genius” above—but I work with what I have.

And what I have is a veritable Abby’s Ark of things I just can’t be without. Well, I don’t have an extra car or phone or computer, but I do have an extra Hot Shot and vegetable steamer, and sometimes that’s all that I need.

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