Allow me to state for the record that I am not a fan of spiders.
In fact, I am the exact opposite of being a fan of spiders.
In fact, on the list of things that bum me out, spiders rank somewhere between being eaten alive by polar bears and a nuclear holocaust.
Everything about them–from their beady eyes to their spindly, hairy legs–seems sinister and malevolent and completely unworthy of my compassion.
Mind you, I am not this way about most of God’s less fluffy creations.
Snakes? No problem.
Lizards? Let’s dance.
Bats? Bring ’em on.
But spiders?
Let me put it this way: If I had my choice of being hit in the face repeatedly with a shovel or having a Daddy Long Legs crawl on my arm, I’d go ahead and pop some Extra Strength Excedrin and clear my schedule for the next week or so.
So, it’s cosmically fitting that this would appear in our bathroom this weekend:
Allow me to reiterate: THIS…
…IS LIVING IN OUR BATHROOM.
It found itself a nice little vantage point on the ceiling above our shower Sunday morning and, since Katie and I each have a strict No Contact policy when it comes to icky things (and have been so far unsuccessful in convincing the other to amend hers), has been leering at us from up there for two whole days now.
Look, I’m fully aware that spiders are part of the Great Circle of Life or whatever, but if this is Nature’s attempt to teach me some integral lesson on how to peacefully coexist with my eight-legged brethren, it was a poor location choice because, sorry, but I find it a tad hard to sympathize with the plight of something that has seen me in all my naked, vulnerable, soaking wet glory.
This will not do. If it’s still there after work today, decisions will need to be made. Strategies devised. Perimeters secured. Attacks mounted.
The kind of morning where you awake, bleary-eyed and bewildered as to how you arrived in this bedroom, this body.
The kind where you open your eyes to find your shirt has twisted completely around you, your pajama pantlegs are hitched up past your knees, and your hair has fashioned itself into an intricate network of Sailor’s knots. Your mouth gives off the distinct impression that it spent all night gumming a gym sock like a Werthers Original.
And now you are jonesing for a caffeine fix.
So you sit up, spend a moment orienting yourself to your new vertical-ness, kick off the sheets, swing your knees to the edge and let your feet, Lewis and Clark, scout the way to the kitchen.
But upon arriving at your destination, something’s amiss. You go to scoop some coffee and…
Huh.
You stand there for a moment, unconvinced. Let out a little cough.
Perhaps you’d be more apt to appreciate the dramatic irony of the situation if you were able to fully open your eyes.
Another minute of silent reflection. Then, you start grasping at straws:
You check the coffee machine just to be sure you didn’t already scoop coffee, then suffer a mild stroke that damaged the coffee-scooping short-term memory region of your brain.
Coffee? Are you in there already? Do I need to go to the hospital?
No such luck.
You stand there stupidly in the center of the kitchen, scratching yourself. Giving this information a minute to sink in.
“Well that sucks,” you say out loud, to no one in particular.
Then you get serious. You consider your options. You do a quick equation in your head, calculating the time it would take to get dressed and brushed and scrubbed into a version of you passable enough to venture into the outside world and adding that to the distance to the nearest coffee shop, then subtracting by how much you despise Starbucks’ burnt-tasting coffee and insane price tag and, finally, dividing by how weak your resolve is to go entirely stone-cold caffeine-sober today.
You’re not exactly sure what the final answer is since you’ve always sucked at math, but you know you don’t want to go.
And because it’s 4:38 p.m. and I’m still in my pajamas.
And because my brain is mush from the last three chaotic days spent rescheduling the trip to Costa Rica** since the airline we were going to be flying out on Monday decided to — how shall I put this delicately? — sh*t the bed.
And because I think we all could appreciate somethin’ cute n’ fluffy right now. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, we’re all gettin’ somethin’ cute n’ fluffy.
And because the only productive thing I’ve done all day is brush my teeth and I intend to keep it that way.
A few notes about the video:
1. That’s Roxy. We have two cats, but she’s the only one we like. The other one shrieks at us and hides a lot.
2. The clip ends rather abruptly because, a millisecond later, I say something to the camera and my morning voice is not cute. I sound like a transsexual undergoing hormone replacement therapy. And if you’re at all familiar with that, you know it’s not a good sound.
2. This video was taken at our old house. Please do not gaze upon the abject horror of our living conditions and pity us. We did this to ourselves. Those shoes and boxes by the couch? Stayed that way for four months.
3. I promise I will not dredge up an old cat video from the archives for my next post. At least, I’m pretty sure I won’t. I mean, I’ll try my hardest not to but being lazy is feeling pret-ty good right now…
* Oh, and, by the way, we’re happy to announce that the Costa Rica trip is back on track with only a week-long delay. In the words of Chuckles: Boo -yah! Details to follow when I feel like rejoining the human race. Thank you and goodnight.
** Ok, Katie did most of the calling and negotiating. But it was really tiring hearing about it.
Just thought I’d stop in and let everyone know that I have decided to forego the Frederick apartment and Costa Rica trip and pretty much my life as I know it to live out the rest of my days with my in-laws in Cape Cod.
I haven’t run the idea by them yet, but I’m sure they’d be cool with it. I mean, who wouldn’t want an unemployed 28-year-old shacking up with them for all of eternity?
They shouldn’t have a ‘Welcome’ sign if they don’t mean it.
I love visiting Chuckles’ folks. Aside from being two of the nicest, most laidback people on the face of the Earth, they’ve managed, over 17-odd years, to transform their property into a heavenly piece of mellow, stress-free paradise.
Here’s how a typical morning goes when we visit: I wake up around 9 a.m. to find freshly ground coffee waiting for me in the kitchen. Amen. Then, I shuffle (because that’s the only way I know how to transport myself in the morning) out to the porch where I’m greeted by the warm sun, a cool morning breeze and this…
…and these…
…and these.
And then I proceed to lounge around in my jammies in a drooling, zen-like trance for the better part of the morning until a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs, fluffy waffles topped with fresh fruit and homemade Kahlua whipped cream, and a Bloody Mary that’d make you slap your mama magically appears in front of me.
And then I silently give thanks that, for some insane reason, Chuckles’ parents keep inviting me up to mercilessly sponge off their polite hospitality. Obviously, these people haven’t learned enough about me yet.
Seriously, I’m not even kidding when I say that being here is the best high you can get without a dealer on speed dial. Everything about this place is quiet and peaceful and homey and just so frickin’ picturesque, from the flowers Jude planted out front…
…to the vegetable garden Rick cultivated out back with his 10 green thumbs…
…to the stone patio they recently put in bythemselves…
…everything about this place screams, “CHILL THE FRICK OUT, YOU NEUROTIC HEADCASE.”
And sometimes I need to be bossed around a bit, you know?
“Dude. You’re, like, totally harshing my mellow with that camera.”
I almost forgot to mention it because my brain is already hard at work purging any recollection whatsoever of that chapter of my life.
Anyhoo, it’s going to be a busy day getting packed and ready to drive up to Cape Cod to visit Chuckles’ folks tomorrow, but I felt this news was worth at least a quick post.
I’ve got to say, when I woke up this morning with the realization that I didn’t have to go to work today, things just felt different somehow…
Continuing this highly uncharacteristic strain of integrity and mental fortitude (don’t worry, I’m seeing a doctor about it later today), here’s the next batch of infomercial reviews, served piping hot and fresh from my lil’ noggin to yours.
And because my brain is much like a runaway train in that any derailing whatsoever could result in mass destruction and devastating casualties, rather than trying to back up to explain what this is all about, I’m just going to refer anyone out of the loop to this and this.
According to the product description, this little contraption is designed to remove pills and fuzzies from sweaters, blankets, carpet, Andy Garcia’s back, etc. So I decided to test this theory out on a favorite sweater I’d worn since the mid-90s that had developed some pesky fuzz-nubs in some rather “titillating” locations. (Let’s just say I looked cold all the time.) Anyway, because of this, I hadn’t been able to wear it since back in ‘ought-3, so I was delighted to find that such a device existed to remedy my problem. However, after the shaver had its way with my poor sweater, the pills had become mangled, raggedy tassels. (Which, also, were not a good look for this particular location.)
I’ll be honest, I was pretty bummed out. This sweater had been with me through bad haircuts and good times and all the unholy awkwardness of my teenage years. We’d seen things together. Done things together. Horrible, unspeakable things. And, frankly, I wasn’t ready to let go of that bond just yet. But, after the shaver did its dirty work, it was clear there would be no miraculous recovery for my sweater so, with a quivering chin, I took it outside to the garbage can, cradled it lovingly in my arms and told it that it was a goodsweater, and then put it out of its misery.
By shooting it.
Kind of spooked the neighbors a bit, I think.
Verdict: Granted, it was my fault for not testing the shaver out beforehand, but you live and learn. Maybe it’d work better (or at all) on some different kind of fabric, but I’m too bitter and resentful to ever try again. Fool me once, shaver. That being said, if you’re prone to developing sentimental attachments to garments or despised the movie Old Yeller for robbing you of your sweet childhood innocence, I cannot, in good conscience, recommend this device.
Next up…
VuPoint Digital Film and Slide Converter FC-C520-VP-BX2 (CyberGuys.com, $102)
I bought this as a gift for my parents last Christmas. I distinctly remember standing in the checkout line, congratulating myself on being such a thoughtful daughter as I imagined the hours of nostalgic joy they’d derive from poring over our old family slides, digitizing the treasured photos of our youth for future generations to cherish.
Unfortunately, we’ll never know how well the slide converter actually works because, as it turns out, my parents have zero interest in that scenario. Apparently, they’d much rather spend their free time (and children’s inheritance, might I add) jet-setting off to exotic locales, braving the great outdoors, hosting lively parties, and generally being total parental deadbeats. Kidding, Mom and Dad! (Hah, like you guys read this blog anyway…)
Verdict: This is a great gift for sentimental, loving parents who actually cherish reflecting on their family’s precious memories. Or, if you’re just a bitter child with an axe to grind. (How come you never went to any of my school plays, huh, Mom and Dad??)
Whoops, sorry about that. Moving on!
Swiffer WetJet (available at most retail stores, $8 for starter kit)
In the beginning, there was darkness and disorder. Muddy shoe prints, dried coffee stains and mysterious sticky spots commiserated conspiratorially out in the open. Stale crumbs lurked in the shadows, menacing passersby. Roving rival gangs of cat hair rioted in the streets. The broom crouched in the corner, quaking in its bristles.
Who could save this lawless land?
And then, just as nearly all hope had vanished, the Swiffer WetJet moseyed into town. Bringing with it its long, righteous arm handle of justice.
And peace and order were restored to the kitchen.
The end.
Verdict: The Swiffer WetJet is the only reason our apartment hasn’t been condemned for major Public Health and Safety code violations. So I recommend.
Up next on the chopping block…
Fling-ama-String Cat Toy
My oldest brother put me onto this cat toy, which hangs on a doorknob and whips a string around via a battery-powered elastic conveyor belt. He’d bought one and raved about the hours of endless entertainment it provided (I’m assuming for his cat) — and, since I’m all about neglectful parenting, I jumped at the prospect of wearing out Roxy and Talula’s fluffy little backsides without having to actually interact with them in any meaningful way.
And it worked great for the first few weeks. Every time they started getting unruly or obnoxious, I just turned that sucker on and—bam!—they’d gravitate to it like pod people to the mothership, fully prepared to triptheir tiny cat minds until either the battery died or they collapsed from exhaustion. But now, much like Pokemon, slap bracelets and leg warmers, the fad has apparently passed and my cats are so over it.
Verdict: This thing has gotten rave reviews all over the Web and won awards by people who apparently give out awards for that sort of thing, so I’m going to assume my cats are just finicky jerks and heartily recommend this item to any and all cat owners. However, one word of caution: Prior to purchasing, you will need to come to terms with the fact that owning this item means that you are, in no uncertain terms, a catperson.
That was a hard step for me to take because it’s generally viewed as being about as cool as wearing a fannypack or collecting commemorative plates. And, especially unfortunate for Chuckles and me, we didn’t have any other serviceable door in our apartment to attach it to except our front door — which means, this convoluted contraption shrieks “WE’RE CAT PEOPLE!” to every poor sucker who enters our home. The only thing more obvious would be if we had a six-foot-tall cat tower in lieu of a sofa in our living room or matching T-shirts with their faces screen-printed against a rainbow backdrop.
Anyhoo, that’s enough reviews for a while. There’s still plenty more where that came from, but even I’m sick of this project by now, so I can only imagine how spiteful and vindictive you guys must be at the prospect of another infomercial post.
Maybe we’ll pick it back up again sometime down the road, but I think we could all use a “break”.
You know, just to kind of clear our heads. See where we want this to go.
Maybe date other blogs.
Kidding. Katie and I will hunt you down if we find out you’re cheating on us.
I guess I am going to continue this whole “infomercial bidness” I started way back when after all.
I fully intended to let this topic fade into obscurity like so many of my other empty promises (I mean, why start making good on those suckers now, right?) — but, lo and behold, here we are.
I’m just as surprised as you are about this sudden, uncharacteristic bout of tenacity.
So, where were we when I last posted? Ah yes. As I mentioned before, I’m a flaming infomercial addict who… yadda, yadda…
Every Christmas since I turned 16, my Dad has gotten me some sort of emergency car kit complete with jumper cables, orange traffic triangles, battery chargers, flux capacitors, etc. Every Christmas. I get the feeling my Dad thinks I’m some sort of pathetic, dim-witted female who regularly finds herself stranded helplessly on deserted roads in the middle of the night.
Which I am.
Which is, of course, precisely the reason it’s more probable I’ll choose to accept a ride from a twitchy-eyed stranger with a hook for a hand than waste my time bothering to figure out how to actually use anything in this kit. But, hey, thanks for thinking of me, Dad!
Verdict: Basically, the only time I even remember I own this kit is when I take a corner too fast and hear a vague dull thud from the trunk. So it’d probably be useful only for those who (a) are sensible, resourceful, capable adults who are vigilant about their personal safety, or (b) morons like me who think it’s comedy gold to to tell passengers that the thud they heard was just a drugged homeless guy in the trunk.
Next up…
My Lil’ Reminder Keychain* (AsSeenOnTV.com, $8.95 for 2)
Technically, I didn’t buy this item. This was a thoughtful gift given to me by my oldest brother as a way to conveniently record quick notes to myself when paper and pen (or, you know, blood and walls) weren’t handy. And it probably would’ve simplified my life in miraculous ways if I weren’t entirelycreepedoutto the very core of my being by it.
Ok, so maybe my reaction’s a little extreme. But, the way I see it, considering how often I engage in weird, strange, quirky, and/or bizzare behaviors, it’s only by the grace of the Lord Almighty that I have managed to avoid becoming a hapless, slack-jawed victim of YouTube. So choosing to use a recording device seems a little too much like thumbing my nose at Fate. And that prospect alone might’ve been reason enough for me to steer clear, but then add to that the time I was 13 and went on vacation to Fort Fisher with a girlfriend and her family and her Dad got a call from the hotel manager a few weeks after the trip saying that he had us on video surveillance doing cartwheels in the hallway in our bras and underwear in the middle of the night.
It’s just a bit traumatic to have to carry around for 15 years the knowledge that your friend’s Dad knows that, on occasion, you willfully engage in half-naked cartwheels, you know?
Verdict: I recommend this handy gadget for those of you without crippling media phobias or proclivities toward “double rainbows”-style freakouts. And for those who do, well, God help us.
* Ok, I lied a bit. This isn’t theexactsame brand I own, but I couldn’t find mine online. I know it’ll be hard to trust me again. I’m willing to go to couples counseling if it’ll help us get past this.
Moving on…
Debbie Meyer Green Bags (GetGreenBags.tv, $9.95 for 20 bags)
These bags, which are designed to naturally extend the life of your fruits and veggies, are the holy grail for anyone like me who decides, in a guilty, post-weekend-long-S’more-bender, to spend a small fortune on leafy greens, only to sentence said produce to a lonely, smelly, agonizing death in the bowels of the crisper before finally being tossed out a month later.
Mind you, these bags don’t work miracles — it won’t keep fruits and vegetables fresh forever and it sure as heck won’t make them taste any better than what they are — but it prolongs the shelf-life by about a week to a week-and-a-half. And that’s usually just enough time for me to have Hoovered up everything else in the fridge (including condiments) and, in a hungry rage, grudgingly resort to those celery sticks and alfalfa sprouts I bought three weeks ago.
Verdict: The downside is these bags are a little flimsy (it’d be great to have this technology in Tupperware), need twist-ties, and wear out after about 15-20 uses, but if you’re a regular produce-eater — or just prone to random bouts of guilt-driven produce purchasing — they’re definitely worth the money.
Whether or not to buy this device is perhaps one of the most personal decisions you will make in your life. It’s the Sophie’s Choice of hair removal. See, on the one hand, the Epilator works — and, unless you are some sort of Yetti, you will enjoy blissfully hair-free legs, armpits, etc., for up to two weeks. On the other hand, there is a good chance that, during the initial hair removal process, you will pass out on your bathroom floor and not be found for several days, thus significantly reducing your appreciation for smooth legs during that time.
Basically, it comes down to what lengths you are willing to go to in order to be hair-free. Because the way the Epilator works is by ripping out your hair follicles by their roots. And that is not merely advertising jargon like “Blasts through soapscum!” or “Destroys odors!” This device quite literally RIPS YOUR HAIR OUT. Right in front of its wailing follicle family. And the process can take up to an hour if you’ve got really hairy legs or a lot of surface area to cover.
I’ll admit I’m probably not the typical consumer here. I absolutely loathe shaving because it takes me up to 30 minutes, I always somehow mangle my shins while leaving random patches around my knees, and then I have to do the whole convoluted process all over again the next day. So, for me, the up-front cost is worth the long-term reward. Also, it helps that (a) I have a pretty high pain tolerance in general, and (b) years of using this gadget have deadened all sensation in my lower extremities.
Verdict: If you’re thinking about buying this, I recommend you do some serious soul-searching. Go for a walk on a beach. Watch a sunset. Then take a pair of tweezers and tweeze a few choice hairs as a test. If you start swearing and punching things at random, you’re probably not an ideal candidate.
Ok, that’s it for now! Stay tuned for the next installment… which, at this pace, will be around Fall 2011.
