I hate meetings.

I’m not typically a violent person.

As I was doodling flowers and drawing awesome 3D boxes, I heard the microphone person ask if there were any questions. I am astounded by adults who think it’s appropriate to ask questions in a large group setting. When the speaker is finished, the meeting is over. Do not ask your questions.

When Jennifer in 3rd grade talked a lot and asked too many questions and kept us from having extra kickball time at the end of the day, we found her at recess and took care of it. “Stupid Jennifer? If you shut up, we get kickball time. Duh.” If verbal encouragement didn’t work, stomping on her feet would do the trick. I’m now realizing that playground mafia was not allowed in some parts of the country. Linda, from a meeting I recently attended, clearly never had her feet stomped.

Linda kept asking questions that applied only to Linda. I don’t understand why the microphone person kept answering. She could have said, “Stupid Linda, that question only applies to you; let’s talk after this meeting so we don’t waste the lives of everyone else in this room.” But she did not.

I contemplated what should happen to Linda. It’s not her fault that no one ever stomped on her feet earlier in life. But Linda started an avalanche. Ronnie and Barbara suddenly had recurring dumb questions, some of which were already answered earlier in the meeting. Susan rattled on with a story about her sister-in-law who worked in an office that didn’t allow employees to eat gum. When Peggy gave a lengthy diatribe about open-toed shoes being unprofessional and causing the spread of staff infections, I began planning my attack on Linda. She was the instigator of the question and story vomiting. Due only to vast personal restraint, I decided on plan C. You’re welcome, Linda.

Plan C:
In one Ninja-like motion, I will backflip onto my table, or maybe do one of those side cartwheel flips that Ninja’s do, I’m not sure which yet. Anyway, in mid-air I will begin a Banshee war cry at the top of my lungs. Eiiieeiiieeeeeiiieeee!!! With cat-like swiftness, in three easy steps, I will bound across the tabletops to Linda’s location. Linda’s perplexed, questioning stare will only fuel my full-out lineman tackle that will lift her from her chair and send her to the ground with a, “Thwump,” like a raccoon being hit by a truck. The room will gasp, and then grow curiously quiet. I will release her from our now awkward bear hug and simply place my hand on her forehead. You totally can’t get up when someone does that. In slow motion, I will put my pointer finger over my lips, pause for effect, then say, “shhhh.” I will remove my hand from her forehead, climb slowly to the middle of the table and stand, silent and confident. Then, in just above a whisper, I will softly pat Ronnie on the head and say… duck. Then Barbara, long pause…duck. Then Peggy, duck. I will stare at the microphone person for an awkward amount of time, then dart across the table to the front of the room, shouting ‘DUCK’ and whopping people on the head as I pass them. I will grab the mic, and with Jack Nicholson authority and creepiness, I will bellow, “GOOOOSE!” and bail out the window. Because that’s what Ninjas do.

Anyway, if I am ever in a meeting with you, and a paper ball with a rock inside thumps into your temporal lobe while you're asking a question, just be thankful I chose plan D.

Paul's Blog

I haven't blogged lately. I'll have some new stuff soon.

My youngest brother Paul is now blogging:

http://pwberry.blogspot.com/2010/09/10-things-having-new-boy-has-taught-me.html

His blog makes me laugh to the point of facial pain.

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.