I have a variety of not-long-enough-to-be-a-complete-post stories which are either 1) still interesting enough for sharing or 2) mind-numbingly dull but I don’t realize that and insist you must know, and therefore that shall result in this, a disjointed mishmash of unrelated things all in one place. It’s just like my junk drawer! Only with more words and fewer pen caps!! (Moral of this story: If you need a paperclip and a button, I’m your gal.)
There’s a slight twinge of remorse here that I don’t have a more exciting life or whatever, but on the other hand, I got up this morning and brought up Facebook and was immediately presented with several hundred of my closest friends (haaaaaaaa) complaining about snow. And I’m not doing that! This is going to be WAY more interesting (to me)!
Though—speaking of weather—we had a gray, rainy weekend, and nothing makes me adore my spoiled rotten dog more than a few days of rain. While her lovable traits are numerous, the fact that she will leap at the door as if bladder explosion is imminent (ZOMG MUST GO OUT NOW NOW NOW OPEN THE DOOR I’M DYING!!!), then will poke her head out onto the porch once the door is opened, listen to the rain for a moment, and flounce back inside, all, “Just kidding, did you know it was RAINING out there? I just had my hairs did. I’ll just flop down on your couch and cross my legs for a while and take a nap,” is endlessly hilarious to me. This is a dog who was picked up as a stray, clearly in terrible shape. What have we done over the last three+ years that now has her convinced she’s far too delicate to even get WET?
The most pressing issue of the day/weekend is that somehow, when we weren’t looking, Monkey seems to have picked up a 3-pack-a-day smoking habit. At least, that’s what I have to conclude based upon his voice and hacking cough. He woke up on Sunday sounding like Patty and Selma from the Simpsons. I don’t think it’s anything serious, but it’s always amazing to me how he’s fine one minute and festering plague the next. There’s never any warning with him. Ever the doting mother, I went out and bought him some popsicles, and I have to say I am ASTONISHED that he’s not better now. I mean, I bought the real-fruit-juice kind and everything.
Remember the whole what color should I paint my offiiiiiiiice? whine? I’d ordered some paint samples and then left them in various places around my office for a week before concluding that yes, I did indeed know what I wanted, and I should go ahead and order it. [Sidebar: Thank you for all of the warnings about yellow. I did order several shades of yellow, but in the end I just wasn’t feeling it. Oasis it is!]
I went on the website for this paint and clicked on the “order paint” link—the same place where I’d had zero difficulty ordering sample chips the previous week—only to discover that the way this works is that you have to pick the paint up from an authorized dealer. Oh. Okay, then. Just plug your zip code into the little doohickey and find out what stores in your area work with this retailer. Fair enough. WELL HEY, it turns out that my closest “authorized store” is 85 miles away. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
Look, I’m never going to claim that I’m not, you know, more than the average level of crazy, but I am not drive-170-miles-for-a-gallon-of-paint crazy. So I did what seemed to be the logical thing, which was I called their customer service number because SURELY that was an error of the store-finder widget thingie, right? RIGHT? Someone took a message and said they’d look into it and call me back. A week later, no call had come, so I called again, and this time the company owner called me back, herself, full of apologies for the delay. And she was super sweet, so for a brief moment, driving 170 miles for a can of paint almost seemed less insane (but the moment passed). She is now “researching delivery possibilities” for me, because I guess if any local contractors are using their paints, we can maybe piggyback my order on someone else’s and get someone else’s delivery truck to bring my paint to town…? It’s all very complicated, and really, I just wanted a gallon of pretty paint and I’m starting to lose hope. We’ll see what I find out this week.
In the meantime, because I am a giant brat, I have taken to intoning, “THIS IS NOT AN OASIS!” to my ugly brown office walls, in a stern and accusing voice.
In the latest chapter of my gradual and alarming transformation into a Genuine Hippie (as opposed to being a Pretend Hippie, which is what Otto and I have assumed ourselves to be ever since Monkey began attending Hippie School), I ordered a particular vitamin/herbal supplement from Amazon after much research as to its application and efficacy. Said supplement is heavy in B12, which is one of those things which People Who Know Medical Stuff say is always more effective if delivered sublingually, because something something absorption rates blah blah intestine walls somethingorother. (Sorry if that was too technical.) SO I ordered a sublingual tablet form of said supplement from Amazon, is my point.
It arrived and my packing slip said “sublingual tablet.” The shrink wrap on the bottle itself said “sublingual tablets.” And that made perfect sense because the bottle was labeled as (and filled with)… capsules. Huh.
The nice customer service rep in my chat window started things off right by calling me Kamin, because… I don’t know. (My account name there is “M. Kamin” and maybe that was perplexing.) Anyway, he kept asking me, “How can I help you, Kamin?” and saying, “I can generate a return label for you, Kamin,” and I was sitting here typing and giggling. It doesn’t take much. And in the end I was told to return my product and go ahead and reorder. But when I pointed out that the product was mislabeled and so I was not feeling confident I’d get the thing I ordered if I tried again, the CSR told me that if I get the wrong item a second time, they’ll remove the listing from the website. Oh, WELL THEN. Please allow me to waste a bunch of time and money and energy to help you fix your inventory problem! I mean, why just go send a human to take a look at what’s up in the warehouse when you could just have me place multiple orders and get annoyed repeatedly? OBVIOUSLY. Yeah, no.
I am envisioning the Soup Nazi. “NO B12 FOR YOU!” But… but… I JUST WANTED TO BE HEALTHY!
My lovely daughter is not what you would call a morning person. Last year on her birthday, we gave her (among other things; we’re not totally mean) a Clocky. I had high hopes that FINALLY we’d come up with an alarm clock SO ANNOYING that she couldn’t possibly oversleep. Silly me. In case you are unfamiliar with Clocky, I know this video is grainy, but the dogs crack me up, and here’s what it does:
Bear in mind, Licorice sleeps in Chickadee’s room. Every morning Clocky goes off—leaping to the floor from her bookcase, whirling around and making more and more noise—and Chickadee completely ignores it while the dog freaks out. Awesome. Also awesome: she doesn’t get up on time and mornings are rushed and unpleasant.
This particular morning she had set Clocky to go off even earlier than usual, which meant that I was sitting here at my desk when it happened, directly underneath the spot on the floor where Clocky THUDs into action. While I knew that somehow my darling diva was ignoring the world’s most annoying clock in the morning, I guess I had assumed that she was getting up, turning it off, and going back to bed. After five straight minutes of listening to it whir and click and beep (and hearing Licorice leaping on and off the bed in a frantic “HEY HEY HEY DO YOU HEAR THAT AWFUL THING HUH DO YOU??” dance), I finally ran upstairs, annoyed, opened her door, turned on the light, and commenced trying to figure out how to turn the clock off.
“Why’d you do that?” she said, squinting into the light. “It’s not time for me to get up yet.” I looked at the clock. I looked at her. I backed away, slowly, because there is no reasoning with teenagers.
As if the clock thing wasn’t enough, Chickadee then left for school in a skirt and sheer tights and NO COAT (because no one wears a coat, Mom, SHEESH) and then proceeded to text me from the bus about how she cold she was. Because I am a sympathetic and loving mother, I replied that it was such a shame that she didn’t own a coat… OH WAIT. She responded that she didn’t own a coat for her LEGS or her FACE.
So then I suggested that next time she wear some leggings and also Monkey’s Batman mask. (Fortunately she found that amusing; that was the sort of thing that could’ve gone either way.) In a parallel universe a teen has that convo and then wears weather-appropriate clothes the following day, but in THIS universe I feel like probably my daughter is going to be wearing a Batman mask to school tomorrow.
I wonder if that violates the dress code.