What Happens When My Phone Battery Dies

Because I am a glutton for punishment, last night I decided to create a Ginger Doodles Facebook page because I thought it might be an easier way for some of my friends to keep up with my posts (feel free to head over there and "like" the page if you want to follow my updates).  Anyway, what sounded like a good idea last night (before I fell asleep in my office chair) turned out to be a bit more labor-intensive than I expected; in fact, after once again waking early--in part due to the obnoxiously loud couple of birds outside my window--I spent the whole.freakin'.day. uploading all of my posts from here to the Ginger Doodle timeline, changing all the dates, and creating a cover photo.  You know, it seems a lot more impressive to blog (sometimes) on a daily basis when you're not having to move each one of those posts individually from one location to another.  Still, I finally finished updating them shortly before the hubs came home, after which I informed him that I was BORED from being cooped up all day and wanted to go see a movie.

I looked up the movie options which, as usual, weren't overly exciting.  I just don't understand why a college town has such limited movie choices.  Sure, I expect a few good adventure/blow 'em up selections, but the local theaters show surprisingly little variety.  It always seems like if a theater has 10 screens, 4 screens will show a movie, 4 screens will show the same movies in 3D and the other 2 screens will show obscure movies no one cares about.  But I digress.

Anyway, I printed out the movie lists and we jumped in my newly-cleaned van (vacuumed to better highlight all the carpet stains) and headed out to get a bite to eat.  I was mildly annoyed on the way over because while singing to the radio my voice was starting to fritz out, something that is never good news--especially right before a concert.  But I'm hoping a good night's sleep will help.  We ended going to Longhorn Steakhouse for dinner because it's close to the theater.  Shortly after being seated, I discovered that my cell phone was completely dead.  I found this odd considering I had just recharged it overnight.  On the one hand, the phone has been holding charges for increasingly less time.  This is not unexpected since it's almost two years old, but it's never drained in a mere 10-11 hours before, particularly not with any apps running (at least that I know about).  So now I have to figure out what's up with that.  So there I sat, across from the hubs, thinking "Oh, crap, now I actually have to talk to him!"  And that reminded me of this cartoon:

If the phone fits...

While he does that to me fairly often (usually he's playing Sudoku), I must admit that I do it sometimes too.  After 25 years there just aren't that many new stories to tell, even when your spouse isn't an Aspie with communication issues.  So I grudgingly set the phone aside and we ordered our food.  Without our usual electronic distractions, things rapidly got silly, starting with the mound of bacon piled on top of my loaded potato soup.  While slurping one spoonful, a bit of bacon went down the wrong way and made me cough.  I was fine, but the entire time I kept thinking of the cartoon I'd seen online earlier:

Six Degrees of Pork Products.

(Seriously--like anyone's gonna give up bacon just because of a minor choking episode.)

While finishing our soup, we started talking about random things.  I made a few lame observations, including the one about driveways vs. parkways.  This is how things shook out from there.

Me:        ...and why do we drive on a parkway but park on a driveway?

Hubs:     Well, that is a connundrum.

Me:        You can't even spell "connundrum."

Hubs:     C...O...well, that's what Google's for.

Me:        That reminds me of another cartoon I saw today:

Hubs:     Yeah, that sounds about right.

Me:         Then why didn't you use Google when you wrote "potatoe" on the grocery list?

Hubs:      That's what it said on those potato cups.

Me:         No it didn't...it said "potatoes."  With an "ES."

Hubs:      Wait--you're saying it doesn't have an "E" on it all the time?

Me:         No, Dan Quayle--only when you make it plural.

Hubs:      Are there other words that do like that?

Me:          Yup.  Like "volcanoes" and "heroes" and "dildoes."

Hubs:       I'm not touching "dildoes."

Me:          That's what she said.

Hubs:      Wait--I thought "dildos" didn't have an "e."

Me:         Well, technically it can be spelled either way. (Except not.)

Hubs:      That's stupid.  That doesn't make any sense.

Me:          That implies that half of the rules of English make sense in the first place.

Hubs:      Well, you have a point.

Me:          I usually do.

Hubs:      And look at this card--what's a "skinny" cocktail?

Me:         What, drinks come in "anorexic" now?

Hubs:     "I'm on a diet, I only want 'skinny' drinks..."

Me:        If you're drinking something that can be skinny, wouldn't that be cannibalism?

Hubs:     ::snorts, during which his hairline raises::

Me:        Dude--do that again.

Hubs:     What?

Me:        You made your hair move up and down.

Hubs:     ::succeeds in repeating the move after a few tries::

Me:        You know, that just makes it look like you're wearing a Beatle wig and making
               it shift back and forth.  You know your hair still looks like Prince Valiant's,
               right?

Hubs:     Why are you scribbling notes on that notepad?

Me:        Because my phone is dead and I can't use the notepad on it.

Hubs:     You're writing down what I say, aren't you?

Me:        What?  Don't you like starring in my blogs??

Hubs:     I don't mind, I was just wondering what you were gonna write down next.

Me:        Hey--I was nice to you!

Hubs:     Yeah, I know I was actually surprised.  I liked it being quiet.

Me:        I wasn't talking about your birthday.

Hubs:     Oh, I thought you meant my 50th.

Me:        Dude, I don't actually write about you that often, and if I did, you'd be
               screwed--and that's if I was being nice.

Hubs:     That's probably true.

Me:        Besides, it's kinda hard to be mean to you for your 50th if no one is around to
               help, and I can't exactly lob 50 of your computers into the yard if I have a
               pulled muscle.  If I could, I'd have taken a picture of it and sent it in to
               Redneck's Weekly.

Me:        Wait, that doesn't sound right.  Can computers even be redneck?

Hubs:     High-Tech Redneck? 

Me:        Possibly.

So would throwing computers out on the hill be "downloading" them?

 

Me:        You still haven't gotten your ketchup yet, have you?

Hubs:     Nope.

Me:        When's the freakin' ketchup coming?  (I did not say this loudly enough to be

               overheard.)

Waiter:   Did you need ketchup over here?  Here's a bottle.

Hubs:     Thanks.  ::opens bottle::

Me:        This is like when I asked last week why that person from Memphis had friended

               you months ago and not me, then less than 12 hours later I got a friend

               request from him.  Isn't it cool how I always seem to do stuff like that?

Hubs:     PBBBBBBTPTTTTT!!!

Me:        Not that.  Stop making the ketchup fart.

Hubs:     What are you writing now?

Me:        Your ketchup fart.  After spending all day transferring files from my blog to 

               Facebook, I didn't have time to think of something to blog about tonight.  

               It's a lame joke, but I need a post.

Hubs:     Well, there's always the extra-terrestrial bras search.

Me:        The extra-terrestrial CHURCH BRAS???????

Hubs:     No, the extra-terrestrial bras.

Me:        Why are you talking about alien church bras???

Hubs:     NO, alien bra search.

Me:        I have no idea what the hell you're talking about.

Hubs:     I was thinking about all your weird search terms and that something random 

               like "extra-terrestrial bras" could be one of them.

Me:        You know if you have to explain a joke it isn't funny, right?

Waiter:   Did you save any room for dessert?

Me:        ::makes a face::

Waiter:   Oh, your eyes lit up when I said "dessert!"

Me:         No, I'm full.

Waiter:   Okay, I'll get your ticket.

Me:        (to Hubs)  Because I always confuse looks of horror and consternation with 

              "Yum!  Dessert!!"  If I ate any more, something would explode from my middle.

               At least then there would be a reason for you to be talking about aliens.

Hubs:     I thought you'd think it was funny.

Me:        Do you even know me??  For example, do you even know what my favorite
               color is?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        Are you sure?

Hubs:     Yes.

Me:        Are you sure?

Hubs:     Yeeeeeeees.  You're not saying you've changed it, have you?

Me:        Well, sort of.  I mean, it's been 25 years, Dude.  Is it so hard to believe my
               tastes might change?  I still like blue, but my current favorite favorite shades are 

               probably aqua or teal.  Turquoise.  In the blue family.

Hubs:     When did this change?????

Me:        A while ago.  You weren't paying attention.

Hubs:     But they're all still blue, right?

Me:        You're kidding, right?  What color is that stripe on your shirt?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        And what color is my shirt?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        Are you saying it's the same blue?

Hubs:     No, yours is darker.

Me:        No it's not, yours is.  

Hubs:     This is why everyone uses the Pantone scale to define colors.

Me:        No, they don't.   But then you probably think there's only one shade of 

               every color.  Because you are a guy, and therefore genetically color-impaired.

Hubs:     No I'm not.  I know your shirt is a different shade of blue than mine.

Me:        So how many colors of blue are there?

Hubs:     Dark blue and light blue.  And maybe medium blue.

Me:        So what color blue is your shirt?

Hubs:     Faded.

Me:        That's wasn't one of the options.  Navy.  Your shirt is navy blue.  Mine is 

               royal blue.  Well, a little darker than royal, really.

Hubs:     I still say yours is darker.

Me:        No it's not.  Hey, waitress!

Waiter:   Yes?

Me:        What color is that stripe on his shirt?  ::points at hubs' shirt::

Waiter:   Well, it's, um, I don't know, this is hard.

Me:        Well, it is faded...

Waiter:    Blue.  It's blue.

Me:        What shade?

Waiter:    Navy blue.

Me:        And what color is my shirt?

Waiter:     Indigo.  With maybe a little bit of purple in it.

Me:        And is my shirt lighter or darker than his?

Waiter:     Lighter.

Me:        Ha!  I WIN!!!

Waiter:    Did you guys have a bet or something?

Me:        Something like that.

Waiter:    Okay, well have a great weekend!

Me:        See--she's objective.

Hubs:     No she's not...humans can't be objective by definition.

Me:        ::headtable::   I meant that she's objective because she was not biased

               about which of us had what color or how much light was reflected off of it.

Hubs:     Colors are just a large collection of names randomly assigned to a few shades.

Me:        Could we be any bigger nerds???

The problem with the girl's side of this chart is that it's making me hungry.

After dinner we waddled back out to the car, feeling as distinctly over-full as if we'd just finished Thanksgiving dinner and were sprawled on couches with our pants undone in the traditional American fashion.  We opted to save the movie for Sunday afternoon when we were less miserably full and might possibly not ralph at the first whiff of popcorn.  We got home, crawled upstairs, and watched episodes of Castle on Netflix instead.  No more random and nerdy conversations ensued, but that's okay because I still won.

What Happens When My Phone Battery Dies

Because I am a glutton for punishment, last night I decided to create a Ginger Doodles Facebook page because I thought it might be an easier way for some of my friends to keep up with my posts (feel free to head over there and "like" the page if you want to follow my updates).  Anyway, what sounded like a good idea last night (before I fell asleep in my office chair) turned out to be a bit more labor-intensive than I expected; in fact, after once again waking early--in part due to the obnoxiously loud couple of birds outside my window--I spent the whole.freakin'.day. uploading all of my posts from here to the Ginger Doodle timeline, changing all the dates, and creating a cover photo.  You know, it seems a lot more impressive to blog (sometimes) on a daily basis when you're not having to move each one of those posts individually from one location to another.  Still, I finally finished updating them shortly before the hubs came home, after which I informed him that I was BORED from being cooped up all day and wanted to go see a movie.

I looked up the movie options which, as usual, weren't overly exciting.  I just don't understand why a college town has such limited movie choices.  Sure, I expect a few good adventure/blow 'em up selections, but the local theaters show surprisingly little variety.  It always seems like if a theater has 10 screens, 4 screens will show a movie, 4 screens will show the same movies in 3D and the other 2 screens will show obscure movies no one cares about.  But I digress.

Anyway, I printed out the movie lists and we jumped in my newly-cleaned van (vacuumed to better highlight all the carpet stains) and headed out to get a bite to eat.  I was mildly annoyed on the way over because while singing to the radio my voice was starting to fritz out, something that is never good news--especially right before a concert.  But I'm hoping a good night's sleep will help.  We ended going to Longhorn Steakhouse for dinner because it's close to the theater.  Shortly after being seated, I discovered that my cell phone was completely dead.  I found this odd considering I had just recharged it overnight.  On the one hand, the phone has been holding charges for increasingly less time.  This is not unexpected since it's almost two years old, but it's never drained in a mere 10-11 hours before, particularly not with any apps running (at least that I know about).  So now I have to figure out what's up with that.  So there I sat, across from the hubs, thinking "Oh, crap, now I actually have to talk to him!"  And that reminded me of this cartoon:

If the phone fits...

While he does that to me fairly often (usually he's playing Sudoku), I must admit that I do it sometimes too.  After 25 years there just aren't that many new stories to tell, even when your spouse isn't an Aspie with communication issues.  So I grudgingly set the phone aside and we ordered our food.  Without our usual electronic distractions, things rapidly got silly, starting with the mound of bacon piled on top of my loaded potato soup.  While slurping one spoonful, a bit of bacon went down the wrong way and made me cough.  I was fine, but the entire time I kept thinking of the cartoon I'd seen online earlier:

Six Degrees of Pork Products.

(Seriously--like anyone's gonna give up bacon just because of a minor choking episode.)

While finishing our soup, we started talking about random things.  I made a few lame observations, including the one about driveways vs. parkways.  This is how things shook out from there.

Me:        ...and why do we drive on a parkway but park on a driveway?

Hubs:     Well, that is a connundrum.

Me:        You can't even spell "connundrum."

Hubs:     C...O...well, that's what Google's for.

Me:        That reminds me of another cartoon I saw today:

Hubs:     Yeah, that sounds about right.

Me:         Then why didn't you use Google when you wrote "potatoe" on the grocery list?

Hubs:      That's what it said on those potato cups.

Me:         No it didn't...it said "potatoes."  With an "ES."

Hubs:      Wait--you're saying it doesn't have an "E" on it all the time?

Me:         No, Dan Quayle--only when you make it plural.

Hubs:      Are there other words that do like that?

Me:          Yup.  Like "volcanoes" and "heroes" and "dildoes."

Hubs:       I'm not touching "dildoes."

Me:          That's what she said.

Hubs:      Wait--I thought "dildos" didn't have an "e."

Me:         Well, technically it can be spelled either way. (Except not.)

Hubs:      That's stupid.  That doesn't make any sense.

Me:          That implies that half of the rules of English make sense in the first place.

Hubs:      Well, you have a point.

Me:          I usually do.

Hubs:      And look at this card--what's a "skinny" cocktail?

Me:         What, drinks come in "anorexic" now?

Hubs:     "I'm on a diet, I only want 'skinny' drinks..."

Me:        If you're drinking something that can be skinny, wouldn't that be cannibalism?

Hubs:     ::snorts, during which his hairline raises::

Me:        Dude--do that again.

Hubs:     What?

Me:        You made your hair move up and down.

Hubs:     ::succeeds in repeating the move after a few tries::

Me:        You know, that just makes it look like you're wearing a Beatle wig and making
               it shift back and forth.  You know your hair still looks like Prince Valiant's,
               right?

Hubs:     Why are you scribbling notes on that notepad?

Me:        Because my phone is dead and I can't use the notepad on it.

Hubs:     You're writing down what I say, aren't you?

Me:        What?  Don't you like starring in my blogs??

Hubs:     I don't mind, I was just wondering what you were gonna write down next.

Me:        Hey--I was nice to you!

Hubs:     Yeah, I know I was actually surprised.  I liked it being quiet.

Me:        I wasn't talking about your birthday.

Hubs:     Oh, I thought you meant my 50th.

Me:        Dude, I don't actually write about you that often, and if I did, you'd be
               screwed--and that's if I was being nice.

Hubs:     That's probably true.

Me:        Besides, it's kinda hard to be mean to you for your 50th if no one is around to
               help, and I can't exactly lob 50 of your computers into the yard if I have a
               pulled muscle.  If I could, I'd have taken a picture of it and sent it in to
               Redneck's Weekly.

Me:        Wait, that doesn't sound right.  Can computers even be redneck?

Hubs:     High-Tech Redneck? 

Me:        Possibly.

So would throwing computers out on the hill be "downloading" them?

 

Me:        You still haven't gotten your ketchup yet, have you?

Hubs:     Nope.

Me:        When's the freakin' ketchup coming?  (I did not say this loudly enough to be

               overheard.)

Waiter:   Did you need ketchup over here?  Here's a bottle.

Hubs:     Thanks.  ::opens bottle::

Me:        This is like when I asked last week why that person from Memphis had friended

               you months ago and not me, then less than 12 hours later I got a friend

               request from him.  Isn't it cool how I always seem to do stuff like that?

Hubs:     PBBBBBBTPTTTTT!!!

Me:        Not that.  Stop making the ketchup fart.

Hubs:     What are you writing now?

Me:        Your ketchup fart.  After spending all day transferring files from my blog to 

               Facebook, I didn't have time to think of something to blog about tonight.  

               It's a lame joke, but I need a post.

Hubs:     Well, there's always the extra-terrestrial bras search.

Me:        The extra-terrestrial CHURCH BRAS???????

Hubs:     No, the extra-terrestrial bras.

Me:        Why are you talking about alien church bras???

Hubs:     NO, alien bra search.

Me:        I have no idea what the hell you're talking about.

Hubs:     I was thinking about all your weird search terms and that something random 

               like "extra-terrestrial bras" could be one of them.

Me:        You know if you have to explain a joke it isn't funny, right?

Waiter:   Did you save any room for dessert?

Me:        ::makes a face::

Waiter:   Oh, your eyes lit up when I said "dessert!"

Me:         No, I'm full.

Waiter:   Okay, I'll get your ticket.

Me:        (to Hubs)  Because I always confuse looks of horror and consternation with 

              "Yum!  Dessert!!"  If I ate any more, something would explode from my middle.

               At least then there would be a reason for you to be talking about aliens.

Hubs:     I thought you'd think it was funny.

Me:        Do you even know me??  For example, do you even know what my favorite
               color is?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        Are you sure?

Hubs:     Yes.

Me:        Are you sure?

Hubs:     Yeeeeeeees.  You're not saying you've changed it, have you?

Me:        Well, sort of.  I mean, it's been 25 years, Dude.  Is it so hard to believe my
               tastes might change?  I still like blue, but my current favorite favorite shades are 

               probably aqua or teal.  Turquoise.  In the blue family.

Hubs:     When did this change?????

Me:        A while ago.  You weren't paying attention.

Hubs:     But they're all still blue, right?

Me:        You're kidding, right?  What color is that stripe on your shirt?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        And what color is my shirt?

Hubs:     Blue.

Me:        Are you saying it's the same blue?

Hubs:     No, yours is darker.

Me:        No it's not, yours is.  

Hubs:     This is why everyone uses the Pantone scale to define colors.

Me:        No, they don't.   But then you probably think there's only one shade of 

               every color.  Because you are a guy, and therefore genetically color-impaired.

Hubs:     No I'm not.  I know your shirt is a different shade of blue than mine.

Me:        So how many colors of blue are there?

Hubs:     Dark blue and light blue.  And maybe medium blue.

Me:        So what color blue is your shirt?

Hubs:     Faded.

Me:        That's wasn't one of the options.  Navy.  Your shirt is navy blue.  Mine is 

               royal blue.  Well, a little darker than royal, really.

Hubs:     I still say yours is darker.

Me:        No it's not.  Hey, waitress!

Waiter:   Yes?

Me:        What color is that stripe on his shirt?  ::points at hubs' shirt::

Waiter:   Well, it's, um, I don't know, this is hard.

Me:        Well, it is faded...

Waiter:    Blue.  It's blue.

Me:        What shade?

Waiter:    Navy blue.

Me:        And what color is my shirt?

Waiter:     Indigo.  With maybe a little bit of purple in it.

Me:        And is my shirt lighter or darker than his?

Waiter:     Lighter.

Me:        Ha!  I WIN!!!

Waiter:    Did you guys have a bet or something?

Me:        Something like that.

Waiter:    Okay, well have a great weekend!

Me:        See--she's objective.

Hubs:     No she's not...humans can't be objective by definition.

Me:        ::headtable::   I meant that she's objective because she was not biased

               about which of us had what color or how much light was reflected off of it.

Hubs:     Colors are just a large collection of names randomly assigned to a few shades.

Me:        Could we be any bigger nerds???

The problem with the girl's side of this chart is that it's making me hungry.

After dinner we waddled back out to the car, feeling as distinctly over-full as if we'd just finished Thanksgiving dinner and were sprawled on couches with our pants undone in the traditional American fashion.  We opted to save the movie for Sunday afternoon when we were less miserably full and might possibly not ralph at the first whiff of popcorn.  We got home, crawled upstairs, and watched episodes of Castle on Netflix instead.  No more random and nerdy conversations ensued, but that's okay because I still won.

Meh.

Today has been one of those days.  Not bad, precisely, just, well, meh.  It started when I woke up at the unpleasantly early hour of 8:30.  I know, I know--8:30 is NOT early.  Well, maybe it isn't when you go to bed at 10 or 11 pm like a normal person.  But when you go to bed around 2 or 3 am every night, 8:30 comes pretty early.  As if that weren't bad enough, the ankle that I'd rolled for the first time in months was a little swollen and distinctly unhappy when I awoke.  Still, I decided to take advantage of the early (for me) hour by showering and going to Panera's for my favorite breakfast sandwich since I'm usually getting up too late to shower and drive over in time to get there before breakfast ends.  It was glorious...I get a Power Sandwich with an egg, ham, and lovely white cheddar, but I switch the healthy whole grain bread for ciabatta so I can enjoy that lovely crunch.  There's little more relaxing than sitting in an empty booth at Panera's and munching away on that little slice of heaven while reading one of my books.

Replace the bacon with ham for a yummy, yummy meal.

Since I was up and about earlier than usual, I decided to go and finally get my car washed since it's been a while because my preferred car wash closed and I foolishly kept waiting.  There was always "one more road trip," and who wants to wash a car only to get it encrusted with bug guts again days later?  Plus, since I have a van, getting to the top is a hassle.  Friends don't trust me on ladders or, you know, the floor anymore, and the hubs has never been particularly good about keeping up with washing the vehicles.  So off I went to a local car wash.  I probably need to get the van detailed, but I figured I'd wait and see how they did with everything else first. 

I drove in, ordered the "special," which is a full wash, vacuum inside, window wash inside and out and, theoretically, a wax, though I'm not convinced I got that.  I walked inside the office/waiting room and strolled through the displays of air fresheners and car accessories to get to the cash register, where a young lady of vaguely surly mien took my money.  I found it difficult to breath inside because of an overwhelming miasma of what could loosely be termed "fragrance."  Not even the multiple air fresheners could produce a pong that strong.  I never could find the source, thought there were candles and other odiferous items deployed throughout the shop, so it could have been anything, or perhaps even everything.  My sinus started rebelling.   I tried sitting at the end of the shop by the outside porch which overlooked the cars being wiped down and vacuumed, where I promptly knocked over one of those plastic fishbowls of business cards.  It didn't help.  I began to get a headache and so went outside to sit at one of the tables.  My book hadn't been open more than 3 minutes when a woman came out, sat down, and lit up a ciggie directly upwind of me.  Great.  First cloying perfumes, now smoke inhalation.  I moved to a bench on the other side of the porch that was mostly out of fumes' way, though it was directly in the sun.  I sat and sweated and read for a while till the lady left, then again changed seats to one in the shade.

Eventually my car was finished and I was called to "examine" it to make sure I was pleased with the results.  I noticed a few little spots, which the guys then rushed to rub off, stopping in front and asking if one spot was scratches or bug guts.  "Oh, no, ma'am, that's scratches...sometimes the bugs gets imbedded in the scratches and won't come off 'cuz of the clearcoat..."  Uh-huh.  Sure, dude, whatever you say.  That's the same sort of logic that encourages conservatives to defund Planned Parenthood and make contraception more difficult to get on the basis of it "reducing the frequency of abortions" or which suggests that teaching to tests instead of teaching critical analytical skills and not holding students accountable for their own responsibility to their learning will somehow magically improve education in this country.  Because yeah, that's it.  And because I was raised in the era of accountability and critical analysis, I see certain flaws in your argument, such as 1. how can bugs get imbedded in scratches less than a millimeter deep and 2. why in the hell would you be clearcoating a car that isn't all the way clean in the first place??  But whatever, dude.

Rather than waste my time arguing about something that wasn't going to change, I got in the car and drove off, but not before noticing smears which somehow got missed all over the inside of my windshield.  Sigh.  To be honest, I didn't check the windows very well since I was focused on the car body, except to look and see if the sticker gunk was still on my back window.  Yesterday I admitted to myself that since the girlie is almost a junior now in college and will be gone virtually all summer, it was finally time to accept that I'm no longer a Soccer Mom and remove some of the Soccer Mom flair from the back window of my van.  It was a sad moment, but I still giggled thinking about how everyone must have thought I had two kids since one sticker was for dance and used the girlie's first name, whereas the other sticker was for her playing flute at All-State, but had her middle name, which is what she used in high school.  I love my girlie and her multiple personalities!  Anyway, though I'd scraped them off, I didn't scrub off the goo that was left behind because I was curious to see how the car wash people would deal with it.  Which they didn't.  When I came out to inspect the van, the gunk was still proudly there, mocking me from the otherwise clean window.

I left the car wash and drove to the grocery to pick up a bag of dog food.   When I got home I spent an hour or so de-gunking the back window, wiping off other spots, and cleaning the windshield more carefully, as well as removing the bits of processed egg that had fallen from a hasty breakfast into the middle console of my van and lodged in the cap of the power outlet for my phone charger.  (Don't ask).  The car wash place dutifully wiped out the inside of the compartment with Armor All or whatever product they use, but thoughtfully left the petrified egg bits inside the cap.  Double sigh.  I went inside for a late lunch, took my drugs (4 hours late) and settled in for the mostly uneventful rest of the afternoon.

Other than exciting things like putting away dishes and making some travel arrangements to handle playing musical dorms with my kid's stuff, not much happened.  So here I sit, at the end of just another boring day in not Paradise.  I need to find something more interesting to keep me occupied.  Either that, or find a website from which I can order a hot pool boy.  At least if I got arrested for trafficking in pool boys it would be less dull around here. 

Of course, I suppose it would be help if I actually had a pool.

Meh.

Today has been one of those days.  Not bad, precisely, just, well, meh.  It started when I woke up at the unpleasantly early hour of 8:30.  I know, I know--8:30 is NOT early.  Well, maybe it isn't when you go to bed at 10 or 11 pm like a normal person.  But when you go to bed around 2 or 3 am every night, 8:30 comes pretty early.  As if that weren't bad enough, the ankle that I'd rolled for the first time in months was a little swollen and distinctly unhappy when I awoke.  Still, I decided to take advantage of the early (for me) hour by showering and going to Panera's for my favorite breakfast sandwich since I'm usually getting up too late to shower and drive over in time to get there before breakfast ends.  It was glorious...I get a Power Sandwich with an egg, ham, and lovely white cheddar, but I switch the healthy whole grain bread for ciabatta so I can enjoy that lovely crunch.  There's little more relaxing than sitting in an empty booth at Panera's and munching away on that little slice of heaven while reading one of my books.

Replace the bacon with ham for a yummy, yummy meal.

Since I was up and about earlier than usual, I decided to go and finally get my car washed since it's been a while because my preferred car wash closed and I foolishly kept waiting.  There was always "one more road trip," and who wants to wash a car only to get it encrusted with bug guts again days later?  Plus, since I have a van, getting to the top is a hassle.  Friends don't trust me on ladders or, you know, the floor anymore, and the hubs has never been particularly good about keeping up with washing the vehicles.  So off I went to a local car wash.  I probably need to get the van detailed, but I figured I'd wait and see how they did with everything else first. 

I drove in, ordered the "special," which is a full wash, vacuum inside, window wash inside and out and, theoretically, a wax, though I'm not convinced I got that.  I walked inside the office/waiting room and strolled through the displays of air fresheners and car accessories to get to the cash register, where a young lady of vaguely surly mien took my money.  I found it difficult to breath inside because of an overwhelming miasma of what could loosely be termed "fragrance."  Not even the multiple air fresheners could produce a pong that strong.  I never could find the source, thought there were candles and other odiferous items deployed throughout the shop, so it could have been anything, or perhaps even everything.  My sinus started rebelling.   I tried sitting at the end of the shop by the outside porch which overlooked the cars being wiped down and vacuumed, where I promptly knocked over one of those plastic fishbowls of business cards.  It didn't help.  I began to get a headache and so went outside to sit at one of the tables.  My book hadn't been open more than 3 minutes when a woman came out, sat down, and lit up a ciggie directly upwind of me.  Great.  First cloying perfumes, now smoke inhalation.  I moved to a bench on the other side of the porch that was mostly out of fumes' way, though it was directly in the sun.  I sat and sweated and read for a while till the lady left, then again changed seats to one in the shade.

Eventually my car was finished and I was called to "examine" it to make sure I was pleased with the results.  I noticed a few little spots, which the guys then rushed to rub off, stopping in front and asking if one spot was scratches or bug guts.  "Oh, no, ma'am, that's scratches...sometimes the bugs gets imbedded in the scratches and won't come off 'cuz of the clearcoat..."  Uh-huh.  Sure, dude, whatever you say.  That's the same sort of logic that encourages conservatives to defund Planned Parenthood and make contraception more difficult to get on the basis of it "reducing the frequency of abortions" or which suggests that teaching to tests instead of teaching critical analytical skills and not holding students accountable for their own responsibility to their learning will somehow magically improve education in this country.  Because yeah, that's it.  And because I was raised in the era of accountability and critical analysis, I see certain flaws in your argument, such as 1. how can bugs get imbedded in scratches less than a millimeter deep and 2. why in the hell would you be clearcoating a car that isn't all the way clean in the first place??  But whatever, dude.

Rather than waste my time arguing about something that wasn't going to change, I got in the car and drove off, but not before noticing smears which somehow got missed all over the inside of my windshield.  Sigh.  To be honest, I didn't check the windows very well since I was focused on the car body, except to look and see if the sticker gunk was still on my back window.  Yesterday I admitted to myself that since the girlie is almost a junior now in college and will be gone virtually all summer, it was finally time to accept that I'm no longer a Soccer Mom and remove some of the Soccer Mom flair from the back window of my van.  It was a sad moment, but I still giggled thinking about how everyone must have thought I had two kids since one sticker was for dance and used the girlie's first name, whereas the other sticker was for her playing flute at All-State, but had her middle name, which is what she used in high school.  I love my girlie and her multiple personalities!  Anyway, though I'd scraped them off, I didn't scrub off the goo that was left behind because I was curious to see how the car wash people would deal with it.  Which they didn't.  When I came out to inspect the van, the gunk was still proudly there, mocking me from the otherwise clean window.

I left the car wash and drove to the grocery to pick up a bag of dog food.   When I got home I spent an hour or so de-gunking the back window, wiping off other spots, and cleaning the windshield more carefully, as well as removing the bits of processed egg that had fallen from a hasty breakfast into the middle console of my van and lodged in the cap of the power outlet for my phone charger.  (Don't ask).  The car wash place dutifully wiped out the inside of the compartment with Armor All or whatever product they use, but thoughtfully left the petrified egg bits inside the cap.  Double sigh.  I went inside for a late lunch, took my drugs (4 hours late) and settled in for the mostly uneventful rest of the afternoon.

Other than exciting things like putting away dishes and making some travel arrangements to handle playing musical dorms with my kid's stuff, not much happened.  So here I sit, at the end of just another boring day in not Paradise.  I need to find something more interesting to keep me occupied.  Either that, or find a website from which I can order a hot pool boy.  At least if I got arrested for trafficking in pool boys it would be less dull around here. 

Of course, I suppose it would be help if I actually had a pool.

Gingerbread

Because I was busy all day today, you get only get a picture.  Enjoy.

Incidentally, I used to work in a bakery.  I'm just sayin'.

Gingerbread

Because I was busy all day today, you get only get a picture.  Enjoy.

Incidentally, I used to work in a bakery.  I'm just sayin'.

Fun With Keyword Searches 2

Every once in a while I like to take a look at the stats page for my blog.  Sometimes it's quite educational.  For example, I am now being found by searches on Google India, Google UK, Google Australia and even Google Algeria, among others.  I feel so international.

I've also graduated from being referred by Ukranian porn sites to being referred by a Ukranian website which appears to sell "Military weapons without a permit and documents."  Well, I know I'm  relieved to have made the jump from pornography to illicit gun sales.  Phew!  Near as I can tell, the website is based on some movie and subsequent Danish stealth game.  Still, the website looks disturbingly real and were I so inclined, I could spend many happy hours filling my "cart" with assorted guns, gun parts, and live ammunition.  I'm still trying to figure out what on earth I could have previously written that would garner me such attention in the Ukranian underworld.  It's rather disconcerting, to say the least.  Of course, I'm also getting hits from a place in Russia that sells modular cabinetry and office furniture, as well as Russian hockey webpage.  Perhaps the Soviets think I'm luring people to my lair of modular furntiture with my wanton and scantily clad body, after which I bludgeon them with a hockey stick and stuff them into the Walnut Emill Wall Unit, with my trusty illicit Luger standing by in case of emergencies.   And I thought I was overly dramatic...

When my blog isn't being discovered through searches by nefarious home-decorating Ukranians, it's being discovered by an inordinate number of people feeling the need to search for "bad ginger perms."  Apparently my 1983 prom picture has become the definitive image for bad ginger perms.  Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying it wasn't a bad perm or that I'm wasn't "ginger."  On the contrary--my hair was poofy and poodley in the grandest of '80s traditions.  What I can't fathom is why so many people are suddenly interested in finding images of red hairdos gone wrong.  Is there some uprising of Disturbed Overreacting Independent Citizens Against Redheaded Egregiousness (DOICARE) about which I have not been informed?  And, if so, why??  All this redheaded discrimination just reminds me of Tim Minchin's song about prejudice, called...Prejudice.  (Be forewarned; some of the lyrics are not family-friendly.  Of course, neither am I all of the time.)

Seriously--Gingers often get a bad rap, and for no good reason.  Redheads are feisty and fiery and full of passion.  Redheads are awesome and brilliant; Galileo, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Van Gogh, and James Joyce (good Irish lad) were all ginger.  And because we are feisty, you don't want to mess with us--just ask Lizzie Borden, Oliver Cromwell Margaret Sanger and Queen Elizabeth I.  Redheads are talented and entertaining, just like Reba McIntyre, Willie Nelson (apparently we also like country music), Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball.  And if you think redheads can't be hot, all you have to do is read about Jamie Fraser from Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series.  You'll be fantasizing about tall ginger Scots for months.  Of course, the whole men in kilts things doesn't hurt.

DeviantArt's imagining of James Fraser.

Gabriel Aubry, with hair photo-shopped to red.

Sorry, what was I saying?  Oh, right.  When I'm not getting hits for bad ginger perms or all things Russian, I also get some distinctly interesting keyword searches.  One of my favorites was for "Duct Tape Messiah."  I don't even want to try to figure that one out.  Other recent searches have been for "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" and "laurie hugh - cannibal."  Um, scuzemewhat??  In the first place, I wasn't aware that Hugh Laurie had ever been cannibalistic, and in the second place, trying to find a "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" sounds like something I might try to find/accomplish while on some equally magic chemical substances.   Some of the keyword searches make sense after I think about them for a while; at least I can see how my blog is getting pulled for them.  Then I get stuff like this:

"Toddler sports bras?"  Really??  What toddler needs a sports bra?  That's just messed up.  Also, "shirt woot ginger boobs??"  Um...are we wooting for the ginger boobs in a shirt, or what, exactly?  I know there is a company called Shirt Woot, but to my knowledge they've never had any shirts related to ginger boobs, nor have I written about that particular aspect of gingatude.  Still, it makes for a colorful search term.  "Bizarro Wuxtry" I get; that's a local comic book/music store.  "Tressed" I also get; that would relate to my post about bad haircuts--and we're back to bad ginger perms.  Then we get to "Enlargement time delay electric shock physiotherapy."  I don't know who told them what I do in my spare time, but...  Seriously--while I've probably had a couple people suggest I need electro-shock therapy, I don't actually write about it, much less about any "enlargement time delays" resulting from using it.  I'm starting to think people need to get out more.  Step away from the computer...well, read this first...step away from the computer and get some sunshine and fresh air.  Take a book.  NOT one about toddler sports bras or electro-shock therapy.  Or learn a new hobby.  Like macrame.  Apparently macrame is the hot topic of the current decade; I've gotten over 200 hits off of the term "macrame" alone, never mind the 150 or so from "macramé" (because that accented 'e' makes all the difference to the macrame elite in the world).  And you haven't lived till you get hits in Cyrillic for "macrame."  Who knew so many Soviets were into macrame?  I guess one has to have something to do when one isn't trolling the web for pornographic hockey hit men who like to decorate houses.

I probably shouldn't be surprised by some of these hits, though; I know what goes through my warped mind on occasion, so I can hardly expect that other people are any less "colorful" in their searching needs.  And they give me the occasional laugh, as I hope they do for you.

P.S.
Now if I really wanted to keep this interesting, I'd offer up a dozen snickerdoodles to the person who creates the most entertaining sentence using no less than 5 of the search terms above...hmmmm...