July

Here is what happens when I combine Blue, Grey, and Orange:

And here is what happens when God combines Blue, Grey, and Orange:

Me: Not so awesome.
God: Crazy Awesome.

We had some storms this summer, followed by some sunsets.

I took pictures.

Anti-Cancer Soup

I am on a health food rampage. Recently I’ve been existing primarily on foods promising to boost my immunity, clear my skin, burn my fat, decrease my cholesterol, and make me completely invincible. So when I saw this recipe for a soup that fights cancer, I almost dropped my tofu and cried. I don’t have cancer, but I figure if I load up on this stuff, any potential cancer attacks will be thwarted by the irrational amount of spinach, kale, flax seeds, leeks, celery, acai, green tea and goji berries already in my system. A preemptive measure if you will. So, I set out to make this famous anti-cancer soup. Following recipes is not my forte, but since this is cancer we’re fighting, I did exactly what I was asked. However…

Confusion:
The recipe clearly prohibited chopping any vegetables, but said to put 10 whole zucchini, 3 whole leek stalks, and 4 whole onions into a pot with an inch of water. I wish I had a picture of how dumb this looked, zucchini piled like a giant campfire, onions falling out of the pot, leeks trying to escape….

Problem:
So you’re supposed to steam these vegetables for a while then chunk them into a blender with some other ingredients. This blending step caused my soup to quadruple in size. I used every large bowl-shaped container in the house to contain the sudden 40 gallons of soup.

Another Problem:
I have never seen pre-digested food this texture or this shade of green. After the blending, the soup looked and smelled like a giant cow had eaten and vomited 9,000 little green army men into the pot on my stove. I tried not to lose hope. I added the last few ingredients and tasted the famed anti-cancer soup.

Result:
SICK OUT. I could not possibly eat enough of this soup to ward off cancer. I couldn’t even finish one trial spoonful. In a matter of seconds, all 40 gallons of anti-cancer soup gurgled down the sink, sludged through the disposal, and oozed into the sewer where it belongs. New Braunfels sewer rats will be rock stars in the world of lab testing. As for me, tonight free radicals will float recklessly through my body, oxidizing all over the place.

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.