I have a debilitating fear of somehow having to read aloud in public and coming across the word "infrared".
There really should be a hyphen in there. Infra-dash-red. Without a hyphen, I see a word that rhymes with "impaired".
The trouble is, most verbs are made past-tense by the suffix "d" or "ed". Therefore, when I see the word infrared, with its absence of dash, I see the past tense of the verb infrare. Of course I know there is no such word as infrare, but this merely adds to my momentary confusion as I try to discern how light becomes, in fact, frare'd or in-frare'd.
I learned I'm not the only person whose mind goes there when my good buddy Grammar Patrol read a newspaper article about underfed horses. He was trying to figure out how exactly one derfs or underfs a horse. Grammar Patrol's grandson quipped that in Washington State, all horses must be properly derfed. Now tell me, should there not be a dash? Under-dash-fed.
You're familiar with my image. Tough and cool. It would not look tough and cool to publicly mispronounce infrared. This is also why it would be completely detrimental for me to meet Jeremy Renner in for real life. I'd totally lose my tough and cool. I'd just look underf'd and infare'd.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Magic Beans
I always wondered how those Dr. Phil Show soccer moms turned addicts. Then I got a prescription for hydrocodone. That's the generic name for Vicodin, though I believe it's the fruit of Jack's beanstalk.
I only had two wisdom teeth. (So...I'm half as smart as everyone else?) One was on the top left, and was abscessed and infected and excruciating and inflammatory. The other was on the bottom right, and was silent and hidden and complacent and hibernating.
When I visited the dentist to beg for removal of my top left, he said that when one's wisdom teeth are mellow like my bottom right, they pull them if you're under age thirty and leave them if you're over age thirty. I was right at age thirty. This meant I got to choose whether, when I had the top left pulled, to have the bottom right pulled at the same time, or leave it and hope it would behave for the rest of its life. Or at least mine. After the misery my top left had wreaked in my head, I opted to lose the bottom right lest it later commit acts of terrorism within my skull as well.
I was also given the option of being awake or asleep for the surgery. Being tough and cool, I opted out of being put under. (What a fool.)
When the surgery was over, and I was done arguing with the receptionist through my cotton wads because she demanded the entire brizillion dollars immediately but I didn't have it, and mopped up Hunneypunkin off the parking lot after he'd melted down because I'd just written a check for half a brizillion dollars to the oral surgeon but we didn't have it, I got my magic bean prescription filled.
Angels sang.
I turned into June Cleaver and Mr. Clean all rolled into one. Pain did not exist, anywhere. Not in my face, my head, my back, my neck, the butt, or even my sore foot. My children smiled and their teeth sparkled like Crest toothpaste commercials. No one bickered. Nighttime insomnia vanished, and daytime fatigue did too. The house was clean. Dinner was served. Everyone on earth looked like Jeremy Renner. (And I didn't even know who he was, at the time. The whole thing makes so much more sense to me, since Bourne.)
I told Hunneypunkin I didn't need the one refill I was allowed but I was considering getting it just in case. Hunneypunkin said I was high. "I am not," I said, "I just finally feel like a regular healthy normal person should feel." Hunneypunkin patted my shoulder and said, "That's because you're stoned."
The Precious had his wisdom teeth removed last week. I dutifully went to the pharmacy to get him his own magic beans. Now, in my kitchen, stands a little green bottle that holds the answer to all my problems. But alas, they are there to solve The Precious' problems, and I must abstain.
I only had two wisdom teeth. (So...I'm half as smart as everyone else?) One was on the top left, and was abscessed and infected and excruciating and inflammatory. The other was on the bottom right, and was silent and hidden and complacent and hibernating.
When I visited the dentist to beg for removal of my top left, he said that when one's wisdom teeth are mellow like my bottom right, they pull them if you're under age thirty and leave them if you're over age thirty. I was right at age thirty. This meant I got to choose whether, when I had the top left pulled, to have the bottom right pulled at the same time, or leave it and hope it would behave for the rest of its life. Or at least mine. After the misery my top left had wreaked in my head, I opted to lose the bottom right lest it later commit acts of terrorism within my skull as well.
I was also given the option of being awake or asleep for the surgery. Being tough and cool, I opted out of being put under. (What a fool.)
When the surgery was over, and I was done arguing with the receptionist through my cotton wads because she demanded the entire brizillion dollars immediately but I didn't have it, and mopped up Hunneypunkin off the parking lot after he'd melted down because I'd just written a check for half a brizillion dollars to the oral surgeon but we didn't have it, I got my magic bean prescription filled.
Angels sang.
I turned into June Cleaver and Mr. Clean all rolled into one. Pain did not exist, anywhere. Not in my face, my head, my back, my neck, the butt, or even my sore foot. My children smiled and their teeth sparkled like Crest toothpaste commercials. No one bickered. Nighttime insomnia vanished, and daytime fatigue did too. The house was clean. Dinner was served. Everyone on earth looked like Jeremy Renner. (And I didn't even know who he was, at the time. The whole thing makes so much more sense to me, since Bourne.)
I told Hunneypunkin I didn't need the one refill I was allowed but I was considering getting it just in case. Hunneypunkin said I was high. "I am not," I said, "I just finally feel like a regular healthy normal person should feel." Hunneypunkin patted my shoulder and said, "That's because you're stoned."
The Precious had his wisdom teeth removed last week. I dutifully went to the pharmacy to get him his own magic beans. Now, in my kitchen, stands a little green bottle that holds the answer to all my problems. But alas, they are there to solve The Precious' problems, and I must abstain.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Only Gonna Paint
All I needed was a gallon of paint and maybe a roller cover, so this little bathroom improvement would be well under fifty bucks. (You're laughing at me right now, aren't you?)
I couldn't handle knowing that there was a "blank" spot behind the toilet, so Hunneypunkin took it out in order for me to paint behind it. Naturally, it broke.
I had this tall skinny shelf that would fit nicely between the cabinet and the toilet, if the cabinet were half as wide, so, why not take out the cabinet, cut it in half, paint its ugly self to match the walls, put it back in, and stuff that tall skinny shelf beside it? There was a filthy, ratty chunk of carpet underneath the cabinet, and if we had moved that chunk of carpet BEFORE we cut the cabinet in half, we'd have discovered that the linoleum had been installed around the cabinet. Oops. Shopping for floor tile... This wouldn't happen to me if I were awesome like Jeremy Renner.
Hunneypunkin decided that since the budget was already blown, and we'd just replaced that lovely gold-colored toilet (did he break it accidentally on purpose?), we may as well replace that lovely gold-colored sink as well. Close your eyes, bite your lip, swipe the card. We'll just wait another month to buy groceries.
A few short years later, the new water-saver toilet doesn't save much water when it requires three flushes per use. The new sink is sporting a little gouge from a slip of Hunneypunkin's tools. The walls are still much prettier than they had been to start with, but I'm not sure a paint job was worth that many Benjamins.
I couldn't handle knowing that there was a "blank" spot behind the toilet, so Hunneypunkin took it out in order for me to paint behind it. Naturally, it broke.
I had this tall skinny shelf that would fit nicely between the cabinet and the toilet, if the cabinet were half as wide, so, why not take out the cabinet, cut it in half, paint its ugly self to match the walls, put it back in, and stuff that tall skinny shelf beside it? There was a filthy, ratty chunk of carpet underneath the cabinet, and if we had moved that chunk of carpet BEFORE we cut the cabinet in half, we'd have discovered that the linoleum had been installed around the cabinet. Oops. Shopping for floor tile... This wouldn't happen to me if I were awesome like Jeremy Renner.
Hunneypunkin decided that since the budget was already blown, and we'd just replaced that lovely gold-colored toilet (did he break it accidentally on purpose?), we may as well replace that lovely gold-colored sink as well. Close your eyes, bite your lip, swipe the card. We'll just wait another month to buy groceries.
A few short years later, the new water-saver toilet doesn't save much water when it requires three flushes per use. The new sink is sporting a little gouge from a slip of Hunneypunkin's tools. The walls are still much prettier than they had been to start with, but I'm not sure a paint job was worth that many Benjamins.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Pixie and Peaches
Pixie was two years old when Peaches came to be her bestest friend. Pixie was almost as big as Peaches at the time.
Peaches, being a large cat, was nervous about being lifted off the ground so he'd sink his kitty talons firmly into anyone who tried to pick him up, purring for the attention but terrified he'd be dropped. Everybody loved Peaches but nobody wanted to hold him. I personally refused to pick up Peaches because I have a serious aversion to being perforated. Pixie, however, could slide her miniature arm under Peaches' belly and hoist him off the grass, and he'd just hang there. I thought Peaches let Pixie pick him up because he'd only be a half inch off the ground, but then I watched her teensy little self precariously scale the ladder to the tree house using only one arm while Peaches dangled from the other. I was pretty impressed with Pixie's strength and agility, once I got done throwing up from panic.
If you've ever had a pixie or other mythological creature of your own, you know there's no sense in attempting to put the kibosh on their powers, so I learned to just not look when Pixie climbed to the top of everything we owned with Peaches in her little mitt.
One day Pixie rushed into the house sobbing till she could barely breathe. "What's wrong?!" I was afraid her hair was on fire or something.
Pixie gasped out, "Peaches doesn't love me anymore!"
I wasn't really able to pull together any kind of intelligent response to that.
"Daddy said!" Pixie sobbed.
What?! I grabbed a handful of seamstress pins with every intention of stabbing them repeatedly into Hunneypunkin's lips to make him pay for spitting such a stupid and heartless statement into Pixie's ear, but just before I marched into the man cave I paused to consider that Hunneypunkin isn't really a stupid and heartless kind of a guy. He's a pleasant, decent, hardworking sort. A regular Jeremy Renner. I put away the pins, remembered to breathe, and asked Pixie, "Why did Daddy say that?"
Pixie puffed and snuffled and said, "Daddy said that if I keep taking Peaches up to the tree house and then throwing him off, Peaches won't love me anymore."
Oh, Lord. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention. Is there a support group for parents of pixies?
Peaches, being a large cat, was nervous about being lifted off the ground so he'd sink his kitty talons firmly into anyone who tried to pick him up, purring for the attention but terrified he'd be dropped. Everybody loved Peaches but nobody wanted to hold him. I personally refused to pick up Peaches because I have a serious aversion to being perforated. Pixie, however, could slide her miniature arm under Peaches' belly and hoist him off the grass, and he'd just hang there. I thought Peaches let Pixie pick him up because he'd only be a half inch off the ground, but then I watched her teensy little self precariously scale the ladder to the tree house using only one arm while Peaches dangled from the other. I was pretty impressed with Pixie's strength and agility, once I got done throwing up from panic.
If you've ever had a pixie or other mythological creature of your own, you know there's no sense in attempting to put the kibosh on their powers, so I learned to just not look when Pixie climbed to the top of everything we owned with Peaches in her little mitt.
One day Pixie rushed into the house sobbing till she could barely breathe. "What's wrong?!" I was afraid her hair was on fire or something.
Pixie gasped out, "Peaches doesn't love me anymore!"
I wasn't really able to pull together any kind of intelligent response to that.
"Daddy said!" Pixie sobbed.
What?! I grabbed a handful of seamstress pins with every intention of stabbing them repeatedly into Hunneypunkin's lips to make him pay for spitting such a stupid and heartless statement into Pixie's ear, but just before I marched into the man cave I paused to consider that Hunneypunkin isn't really a stupid and heartless kind of a guy. He's a pleasant, decent, hardworking sort. A regular Jeremy Renner. I put away the pins, remembered to breathe, and asked Pixie, "Why did Daddy say that?"
Pixie puffed and snuffled and said, "Daddy said that if I keep taking Peaches up to the tree house and then throwing him off, Peaches won't love me anymore."
Oh, Lord. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention. Is there a support group for parents of pixies?
Friday, January 18, 2013
Gray Matter
Dingy mist lurks about the hood today and it puts a serious droop in my brain wave. I can feel my mind flat-lining. Maybe that makes sense, because that lame end-of-the-world apocalypse is four weeks behind us and yet I remain so I might actually be a zombie. But who cares? Jeremy Renner is still among us, so he must be a zombie too. I never knew a zombie could be such a studmuffin.
Are you singing that Cranberries song now...in your head?
I need to work on taxes, correct math papers, file my receipts, rear the offspring, bag up donatables, be the wife, pretend some dinner, contribute to society, clean the fridge (stupid leprechaun ought to be doing that, he has been living there after all and he's likely the slob who spilt the salsa), box up Christmas, remember my vitamins, save the planet, scrub the toilets, pay a bill, mop the floors, reduce my carbon, eat all organic, and do something with those planters that are vacant now because dehydrated houseplants do not come back if you just add water. Thus it is imperative that I devise a plan to stop the gray matter hanging in the air from affecting the gray matter in my head so I can focus.
If I possessed enough mental power right now to be able to experience emotion, I'd be feeling happy with myself over the fact that I didn't waste brain cells making New Year's resolutions this year, because today I wouldn't have the piece of mind to keep any. Maybe that's why I have the peace of mind to park here and blog while my workload has babies all around me.
Are you singing that Cranberries song now...in your head?
I need to work on taxes, correct math papers, file my receipts, rear the offspring, bag up donatables, be the wife, pretend some dinner, contribute to society, clean the fridge (stupid leprechaun ought to be doing that, he has been living there after all and he's likely the slob who spilt the salsa), box up Christmas, remember my vitamins, save the planet, scrub the toilets, pay a bill, mop the floors, reduce my carbon, eat all organic, and do something with those planters that are vacant now because dehydrated houseplants do not come back if you just add water. Thus it is imperative that I devise a plan to stop the gray matter hanging in the air from affecting the gray matter in my head so I can focus.
If I possessed enough mental power right now to be able to experience emotion, I'd be feeling happy with myself over the fact that I didn't waste brain cells making New Year's resolutions this year, because today I wouldn't have the piece of mind to keep any. Maybe that's why I have the peace of mind to park here and blog while my workload has babies all around me.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Run, Impala, Run
I was mildly unnerved when smack dab in the middle of the George Sellar http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Senator_George_Sellar_Bridge over the Columbia River at 5:11 pm my Impala stalled. I had the sense to hit the hazards, kick the car into neutral, and escape the road.
After maneuvering into a safe spot I lit the Hunneypunkin Signal, and for once I got the superhero experience myself. This was odd. Generally I'm home being both parents and my own spouse while Hunneypunkin's out saving the world.
Hunneypunkin got me and the car home, but after hours and then weeks the solution eluded even his mechanicalousness. The Impala would run like...well, an impala, and then without warning it would die, and it didn't give a monkey's butt whether I was in traffic or sandwiched between loaded semis.
I resorted to my motto. I do what I can. (Mechanics isn't it.) I Googled. (No, not Jeremy Renner pictures. Stay on topic, people.) Drivers all over the world wide web seemed to have had similar troubles with their early-2000's Impalas, and of all the fixes these poor suckers tried, the only one that seemed to work was replacing the throttle positioning sensor. I had no idea what that meant, but I practiced pronouncing that term for six and a half hours so I could repeat it to Hunneypunkin without sounding like a girl.
I'm here to tell you that ADD isn't all bad, because Hunneypunkin's kicked in so he forgot all about the rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls can't know car stuff. He picked up a little gadget from a wrecking yard which had my throttley sensorous positionish deally and two other important Impala pieces in it, for a fraction of the cost of a brand new sensory deally without any other Impala pieces, and behold! the part I'd suggested didn't fix the car, but the mass air flow sensor (one of the two other important Impala pieces) did fix the car.
That was a few years ago, Hunneypunkin and I have since traded careers (he goes to work and I hold the fort), and the Impala, still running (sort of), now carries him to work and back instead of me. There are several million light years on the odometer and the transmission has low self-esteem. The gas gauge keeps time with the speedometer, so the faster you go the more fuel you think you have. But the engine is good and the dome light still works. We keep discussing a new(er) car, but until we expand our penny collection...please, Impala, keep running.
After maneuvering into a safe spot I lit the Hunneypunkin Signal, and for once I got the superhero experience myself. This was odd. Generally I'm home being both parents and my own spouse while Hunneypunkin's out saving the world.
Hunneypunkin got me and the car home, but after hours and then weeks the solution eluded even his mechanicalousness. The Impala would run like...well, an impala, and then without warning it would die, and it didn't give a monkey's butt whether I was in traffic or sandwiched between loaded semis.
I resorted to my motto. I do what I can. (Mechanics isn't it.) I Googled. (No, not Jeremy Renner pictures. Stay on topic, people.) Drivers all over the world wide web seemed to have had similar troubles with their early-2000's Impalas, and of all the fixes these poor suckers tried, the only one that seemed to work was replacing the throttle positioning sensor. I had no idea what that meant, but I practiced pronouncing that term for six and a half hours so I could repeat it to Hunneypunkin without sounding like a girl.
I'm here to tell you that ADD isn't all bad, because Hunneypunkin's kicked in so he forgot all about the rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls can't know car stuff. He picked up a little gadget from a wrecking yard which had my throttley sensorous positionish deally and two other important Impala pieces in it, for a fraction of the cost of a brand new sensory deally without any other Impala pieces, and behold! the part I'd suggested didn't fix the car, but the mass air flow sensor (one of the two other important Impala pieces) did fix the car.
That was a few years ago, Hunneypunkin and I have since traded careers (he goes to work and I hold the fort), and the Impala, still running (sort of), now carries him to work and back instead of me. There are several million light years on the odometer and the transmission has low self-esteem. The gas gauge keeps time with the speedometer, so the faster you go the more fuel you think you have. But the engine is good and the dome light still works. We keep discussing a new(er) car, but until we expand our penny collection...please, Impala, keep running.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Only Thing That Works is Me
As I cruised into my garage after dropping off minimum payments on the latest repair bills in town because I was out of postage stamps and calendar spaces, the car collapsed into nine pieces. Nice. Now Hunneypunkin gets to use his superpowers to magic the car back together, and I get to decide which kidney to sell to cover the cost.
On my way to the front door I noticed a steady drip of water on the sidewalk. From under the eaves. Indicating a leak in the roof. Well, I can't fix that, but I can print out the papers for my class tonight.
After forty-five minutes of diplomatic negotiations between the printer and my laptop I had the two speaking to each other and at that point my laptop overheated and went comatose.
While the laptop cooled down I washed the dishes. In dishpans, which I emptied outside because the drain...did not. I also laundered a load of darks and hauled buckets of washer water outside because the drain, of course, did not.
It seemed wise to cease water related activites in order to maintain my carefully protected facade of sanity, so I mixed up a sugary batch of New Year's Irresolutions. Unfortunately the oven believed itself to be overheating and kept turning itself off, while the leprechaun in the fridge woke up and proceeded to mock me with repetitious knocking. Once the oven was convinced it was safe to operate at 350° for thirty minutes, I tried to run the vacuum cleaner over the living room carpet, but it blew the breaker.
It seemed wise to temporarily leave the house in order to maintain my faltering facade of sanity, so I stepped into my waterproof boots and headfirst into the back door because I keep forgetting that in colder weather the doorknob sticks. Once outside, I sloshed through the slush and tossed a bowlful of stale leftovers to the dogs, then turned back toward the house with my socks drenched.
Is it too much to ask that the things I own work as hard as I do?
Hunneypunkin's little sledgehammer smiled up at me from the welcome mat where it wasn't supposed to be. This is the Jeremy Renner of Hunneypunkin's expansive arsenal of tools. It's tough, cool, hardworking, versatile, and fun to look at. It took every molecule of self restraint I barely had to refrain from picking it up and using it on everything I own.
On my way to the front door I noticed a steady drip of water on the sidewalk. From under the eaves. Indicating a leak in the roof. Well, I can't fix that, but I can print out the papers for my class tonight.
After forty-five minutes of diplomatic negotiations between the printer and my laptop I had the two speaking to each other and at that point my laptop overheated and went comatose.
While the laptop cooled down I washed the dishes. In dishpans, which I emptied outside because the drain...did not. I also laundered a load of darks and hauled buckets of washer water outside because the drain, of course, did not.
It seemed wise to cease water related activites in order to maintain my carefully protected facade of sanity, so I mixed up a sugary batch of New Year's Irresolutions. Unfortunately the oven believed itself to be overheating and kept turning itself off, while the leprechaun in the fridge woke up and proceeded to mock me with repetitious knocking. Once the oven was convinced it was safe to operate at 350° for thirty minutes, I tried to run the vacuum cleaner over the living room carpet, but it blew the breaker.
It seemed wise to temporarily leave the house in order to maintain my faltering facade of sanity, so I stepped into my waterproof boots and headfirst into the back door because I keep forgetting that in colder weather the doorknob sticks. Once outside, I sloshed through the slush and tossed a bowlful of stale leftovers to the dogs, then turned back toward the house with my socks drenched.
Is it too much to ask that the things I own work as hard as I do?
Hunneypunkin's little sledgehammer smiled up at me from the welcome mat where it wasn't supposed to be. This is the Jeremy Renner of Hunneypunkin's expansive arsenal of tools. It's tough, cool, hardworking, versatile, and fun to look at. It took every molecule of self restraint I barely had to refrain from picking it up and using it on everything I own.
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