The Dawn of Evening

A)

B)

So apparently when you run out of that Cascade powder stuff, you can't just dump liquid Dawn in that little flippy soap thing on the door.

Longish Sleeves

My long sleeve shirts start out normal, with the torso and sleeves spanning typical human body proportions. The cotton is always soft, the colors are vibrant, the shirts are perfect. Then something happens. My sleeves shrink. Only my sleeves. The rest of my shirt is still perfect, but my sleeves lose any semblance of proportionality and rest an exceptionally awkward distance from my wrist. Not only are my new 5/8 sleeve shirts a clear fashion disaster, they are also remarkably uncomfortable.

I do not like awkwardly short long-sleeve shirts. I much prefer all other sleeve issues. Like bunchy sleeve.

Bunchy sleeve occurs when the cuff is tight enough to rest appropriately on the wrist, but the sleeve is entirely too long, thereby creating a large bunch above the wrist.

Bunchy sleeve is not fun, but it is preferable to delastic nocuff.

Delastic nocuff is the sad situation in which the sleeve was actually the right length for once, but cuff elasticity was less than exceptional. This unfortunate situation leaves the weakened, stretched out cuff susceptible to unintentional dunking in soups and cereals.

Possibly the worst situation is delastic nocuff post-bunchy sleeve. This is a sleeve that was formerly bunchy sleeve, but the elastic in the cuff weakened and created that, “bless her heart she has no arms” look. Once a sleeve has reached this point, there is no return.

Bermuda Triangles and Resumes

*Disclaimer: The following opinions do not reflect the views of former housemate Erin DuBose. The rest of us however, wholeheartedly agree.

September 16, 1950 marked the first allegation of mysterious disappearances in the region now referred to as the Bermuda Triangle. The unexplainable phenomenon created an overwhelming sense of fear and dread to the families of people who insisted on crossing through these treacherous boundaries.

I hate snakes. I also have little appreciation for attack bugs or lizards. This snake was found Thursday living under a rock near our fence.
Her head was immediately severed, and the lives of her baby snake children were not spared. I do not feel guilty.

I also found this little guy in the driveway this week. This was probably unintentional, but again, I do not feel guilty.

These little guys lost their lives in the door jam of our front door. Unintentional. No guilt.

I left the body of the dead snake in our driveway for a couple days, along with the carcasses of the other unfortunate reptiles and arthropods that ventured onto our turf. I hope our message is clear: Fear us. I want all snake families to tremble in fear when one of their loved ones ventures onto our property. I want certain death to thwart their travel plans. Die snakes, Die.

Ok, that’s all I have to say about that. I’ll work on my resume now. My only real plan today was to work on my resume. Instead I have cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, finished laundry, read a book, and found a new location for our hide-a-key. If prospective employers tried to find the hide-a-key or could see how clean my house is, they’d hire me for sure. Well, unless they saw the murdered snake in the driveway.

Norman and the Blood Tester

Years ago, Grandpa wobbled to his recliner, slurred his speech, and motioned incoherently while attempting to tell us something. We freaked out and rushed him to the hospital; only to find out his blood sugar was just a bit low. As soon as he took medicine, he was fine. Now we have these nifty little blood sugar testers at the house. If Grandpa starts acting loopy, we simply test the blood and give him some medicine. Awesome.



I want to create and market a hormone level tester. I would like a simple finger-prick blood tester machine that would notify me if I am crazy. For example, if I look into my closet and burst into tears because my shirt is the wrong shade of blue, I could take out the hormone tester and realize that everything I think and feel is entirely fictional because hormone levels are through the roof. I could then rest assured that in a few days my shirt would again return to an acceptable shade of blue.

I have also been working on creating a character in my dreams that notifies me of non-reality. His name is Norman. He is a thin, nerdy guy with brown plastic-framed glasses. Norman will hopefully enter the scene next time all my teeth fall out. He will wave red flags and shout, "This is not real! You are dreaming!" He will occasionally reassure me that I am neither pregnant, nor floating on my ceiling, nor marrying a faceless person I have never met. Everyone needs a Norman. I am also convinced due to recent events, that everyone also needs a hormone level finger-prick blood tester.



"Knowing is half the battle." -GI Joe.

My Car Has Gas

…then terrorists entered our school, took hundreds of people hostage, and threatened to blow up the entire city…while under lockdown, my group of friends created an escape route through the school air vents…securing freedom for the entire student body…

I daydream while driving. This was a particularly good story, like Red Dawn meets The Breakfast Club. I stopped daydreaming and started calculating how much sooner I would arrive home if I drove 5 mph faster. As I was throwing numbers around in my head, I heard.…bbrrrrrrrrbp! It was from my car engine, and it was unmistakably a fart. My car farted. I instantly looked around, strangely embarrassed and paranoid. I wondered if anyone else heard my car fart. I remembered fifth grade. I was extremely quiet and reserved in fifth grade. I sat by the wall in the back of the classroom. One day my shoe made an inappropriate noise. It really was my shoe, but knowing no one would believe the shoe story, I instantly put my arm to my mouth as though I had intentionally made a fart noise. The teacher looked my direction upon hearing the noise and saw my arm in my mouth. She must have been extremely confused as to why the girl who had never spoken in class was suddenly making fart noises on her arm. I figured being reprimanded for fake farting was certainly better than the social suicide of people thinking I had actually farted in class. Anyway, 5 months have passed and the car flatulence has become a daily occurrence. I considered taking my car to the shop, but have resisted for fear of how the scene would play out…

The service technician would ask if he could help me. I would say that my car makes a farting noise. The man would try not to laugh. He would ask what kind of fart. I would say the….brrrrrrbp kind. He would say the …….bbrrhhmhorrrmph kind? I would say no, more of a brrrrrbp…a little higher pitched than a bbrrhhhhorrrrrph. Frank and James, two men with blue shirts and embroidered name badges, would walk in and want to join the fart noise game. James would stick his hand into his shirt and begin armpit noises. Frank would roar with laughter and claim he could make the real ones on command. Fearing the possibilities of Frank’s claim, I would leave the shop.

I won’t take my car to the shop. I’ll keep it a few more years then sell it to some unsuspecting buyer. She will probably spend the next several years driving around trying to convince everyone that it was just her shoe.

Berry Smoothie Explosion

I like smoothies. Once a week, the living room at my house is the setting of an intense bible study attended by some of the most amazing people in New Braunfels. I do not attend. I watch tv in the back room and do other non-eternal stuff. I typically make every effort to be unheard and unseen while skipping bible study, but Thursday night I was desperate for a smoothie. Our house's open floor plan makes it nearly impossible to go undetected in search of food. I decided I could shield myself behind the refrigerator and half wall long enough to make a simple smoothie without being distracting. I crept stealth-like into the kitchen and began silently combining frozen berries, rice milk, yogurt, and a banana into the blender. I placed the lid on the blender and immediately realized the foolishness of my plan. Regardless of whether I hit liquefy, puree, chop, or blend, an earth-rattling sound was going to rip through the peaceful Bible study. Plan B. The back door. I could unplug the blender and transport the soon-to-be smoothie to the back porch and resume blending. Perfect. I went outside, plugged in the blender, and hit puree. The blender lurched into the air as metallic hammering sounds echoed through the neighborhood. I dove toward the outlet and ripped the cord from the wall. Clearly this must be one of those 220/110 electrical issues where small appliances explode when plugged in to the wrong outlet. Plan C. Patience. I decided to go back inside and wait until the study was over. A few seconds after the closing prayer, as I was still attempting to be relatively quiet, I plugged in the blender. The blender bolted to life and instantly resumed its violent metallic hammering. Out of nowhere, the lid flew off of the blender and a giant metal spoon launched into the air and landed with a great crash. The quaint, serene bible study group I was trying so desperately not to interrupt was now staring wide-eyed in my direction as smoothie dripped from the ceiling. Um, so apparently I left the yogurt scooping spoon inside the blender. Oops. I considered pretending nothing was amiss, ignoring their stares, and sauntering unapologetically back to my room. Instead I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. I had just blended a metal spoon. I finally controlled my laughter, poured the remaining smoothie in a glass, and returned to my room. As I was pondering the health concerns of swallowing shards of metal, I decided it would have been less disruptive if I had just streaked naked through their bible study. Oh well, the smoothie was good.

Simply Not OK

I like toilet paper. The deforestation of countless square miles of pristine natural landscape is completely justified if the end result is toilet paper. My prolific use of said toilet paper is something of which I am both aware and unashamed. However, this week my appreciation for toilet paper has not only dwindled, but has been the sole cause of great distress and confusion. Unfortunately, someone in my household broke all unspoken sanitary rules by purchasing….single-ply.

I’ve never thought of myself as a toilet paper snob, but apparently I am. I don’t need high-end paper with six layers of ring spun cotton laced with silk beaded lotion and lavender fragrances, but your basic two-ply Angel Soft or Quilted Northern is a positive economic alternative. Single-ply is simply not ok. Here is our usual paper and our new single-ply paper:


And here is what happened when one drop of water was placed on each paper:

I’m not sure how to handle this situation. At first I tried to have a good attitude and thought, “Just deal with it until it runs out.” But seven days later there was still just as much left on the roll as when it started. The stuff is going to last forever. I share a bathroom with several roommates, one of which graciously purchased toilet paper for everyone. I don’t know who the supplier was and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by openly addressing the single-ply issue. I have considered several passive aggressive ways to rid my bathroom of the paper. I could secretly swap it out for all of Anna’s paper in the other bathroom. I could accidentally leave my hair straightener plugged in and touching the extra rolls in hopes that they will burst into flames. I could take it all to chapel and try to think of an object lesson involving horribly thin toilet paper. I even considered loading up the car and rolling someone’s house. In any case, unless I am in a third world country, a porta potty, or the woods, where the mere existence of toilet paper is a luxury, I will not continue using single-ply.

Roommate, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your single-ply has been donated to a good cause.