Wednesday, October 31, 2007


Happy Halloween!

I'm not dressing up this year, so I can't tell you about my costume. Halloween makes me nervous because I can't do the slutty costume thing so I always feel frumpy and ridiculous. For example, yesterday I got made fun of because I admitted that my favorite costume ever was a nurse of the non-skanky variety. Just because I REALLY enjoyed attending the sorority social in tennis shoes and scrub pants for a change doesn't make me a boring person. I thought I looked cute with my stethoscope! And more importantly, I was comfortable.

Anyway, since I'm not dressing up, I still owe the world one costume. So here's your treat for Halloween 2K7:

Yes, that's me in third grade dressed as Oprah Winfrey. To be completely honest, this wasn't for Halloween but for a book report. But a costume is a costume. Please notice the God-awful hair, pre-braces teeth, my mother's old cat eye glasses with the lanyard, big earrings, big necklace, tacky diamond bow pin on my right shoulder, hideous dress that looks like a curtain with puffy sleeves, tiered skirt hip bow (as if I had hips in third grade), tights and of course - Sam n Libbys.

Please remember that the Sam n Libbys were the only part of my real wardrobe (I think the dress was my sister's - HA!) I am clearly in COSTUME. This is not how I dressed on a daily basis or I'd have beaten myself up.

Y'all are welcome.

PS - The One With The Halloween Party is one of my all-time favorite Friends episodes. Try to watch it if you can.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007


Dear Office Receptionist Who We've Discovered Only Compliments Our Outfits If They Are Turtlenecks,

Interesting. You'd think the woman who has a long-standing reputation for going after the dirtiest gift during the annual Secret Santa game wouldn't be so big on modesty!


Dear Mouth,

Next time you decide to exclaim "even better!" after the new guy at work explains why his wife isn't coming out with everyone after work because she's out of town, please check with Eyes to make sure there aren't 10 people at the table to laugh at you or with Brain to see if it has a better excuse lined up than "I really really really didn't mean it like that, I swear!"


Sunday, October 28, 2007


An incredible story for you:

Today I had lunch with my uncle. We were discussing change, memories and how even approaching two years after her death, something as big as the Auburn Marching Band or as small as a taste or scent reminds us of our Granny. I told him I heard the song "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole randomly last week and it made me cry. My grandmother liked to cook to Nat, Frank Sinatra or Paul Finebaum.

Less than three minutes later, my uncle stopped mid-sentence and pointed upward. I heard it at the same time he did: the opening bars to "Unforgettable." I'm not even kidding. Of all the songs O'Charleys could have played. What are the odds?

I think she heard us talking about her.


Why is this so awesome?

Friday, October 26, 2007


The other week I was checking my voicemail while out of my network. Which meant I had to hear my own outgoing message each time I called it. Which got me to thinking.

What is the perfect outgoing voicemail message?

I'll tell you what it's NOT. Anything my mother ever recorded. I remember when we got our very first answering machine the summer before I was in first grade. Always wanting to stand out, my mom wrote a rap - YES, a rap - and made my sister and I sing it with her. I still remember it, and because I am a glutton for punishment, I'll tell you how it went:

"Rap! Rap! The Telephone Rap!
Rap! Rap! The Telephone Rap!
We're the (my last name) and we're not at home
So we bought this machine to use on our phone!
If you don't leave a message and just hang up, honey,
Then this machine will be a waste of money!
Wait for the tone and then have your say,
Believe it or not it'll make our day!
Rap, Rap! The Telephone Rap!
Rap! Rap! The Telephone Rap!"

When people started telling my mom they called our house when they knew we'd be gone just to hear the telephone rap, she thought it was because they liked it. Twenty years later, I can see right through it. They were calling to make fun of that stupid-ass message! They told her it was "funny" but what they really meant was "obnoxious." People couldn't even understand what we were saying: someone told her they thought we were saying telephone RATS. Additionally, my first grade teacher called to introduce herself to me, but we weren't at home, so she got the telephone rap. BUT, she didn't hang up the phone before telling her husband "Well Ed, I didn't think I had any black students this year..." (Don't judge me. She's the one that said it.)

Any year that Auburn beat Bama it was changed to us singing the fight song. And Holidays were the worst. Every year she had to out-do herself with another Christmas tune. For example:

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas,
So weeeee are at the mall.
But just leave us a quick message right after the beep
and we'll retuuuurn youuuur call!"

That was how it was at our house. Things died down until I got to school where you'd hear all kinds of outgoing messages. My least favorite: "You have reached the voicemail of ______." What, is your voicemail your secretary or something? I always thought that was a little pretentious.

Phones used to have the option where you could press 1 and bypass the message to go straight to the beep. Unfortunately, most phones don't anymore. Therefore, since we all have to listen to each other's outbound message, I think we should all abide by a list of voicemail rules:

1. It's almost 2008. Everyone knows what to do when we hear a beep and we also know what information to leave.
2. But don't get smartass and say "you know what to do!" in your voicemail, because that's just dumb.
3. Return voicemails when you get them.
4. Do not rap on your outgoing message.

Thursday, October 25, 2007


This has been a great week. Carrie's new CD is great, the Legally Blonde soundtrack is great, the rain has finally gone away, it's starting to get cooler here, I love my blackout curtains so much that it's a struggle not to take them off the wall and pull them into bed with me, the So You Think You Can Dance show was great, my November trip to New York is coming together and I'm going to see Sara Bareilles tomorrow night.

There's only one thing I have to complain about this week: the shortage of coffee creamer in this office is driving me crazy.

It works well for me that my favorite kind of coffee creamer (Nestle's Coffee-mate, french vanilla) is also the favorite creamer of our CEO himself. About a month ago, in a move that I can only guess was a money-saving venture (didn't work), our little individual cups of creamer went away and in their place was a massive economy sized bottle with a pump on it. The bottle looked fine on the outside, but what came out of the pump was funky. Rather than a liquid, creamy consistency, it looked like straight up Elmer's glue. Really thick. And it didn't taste great.

I tolerated this because what choice did I have? Thick gluey coffee creamer is better than none at all. But on Monday, the pump ran out. And no one had ordered more. So I switched to hazelnut creamer. Not as tasty but better than nothing. Everyone else did this too, so guess how long the hazelnut lasted? One day.

So now all we have is half and half. While that works in restaurants, people here make the coffee so strong that I would need equal parts half and half and coffee in my cup to balance each other out.

So it's really thrown me off. When I first started working, I drank three cups of coffee before lunch. Not because I needed it but because I could. Eventually it went to two and a half, then two, and now it's one and a half. And y'all know how much I love routine. My life is built around it. My morning cup(s) of coffee are a big part of that. When I have the coffee, the day has begun. But this week I haven't even been able to finish one cup because it tastes so weird.

Anyway. Not a big deal. And besides, it's getting eclipsed by how great the week has been otherwise.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007


Dear Coworker Who Just Asked Me Why I Hadn't Been My Usual "Table Dancing" Self Lately,

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!? and EEEEEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Love Disgusted,


How come Melissa and Leslie are the only two who've tried to guess where I'm going tomorrow night?

I write about contraceptives or BMWs and you guys come to life. But no one will play my guessing game except Melissa and Leslie. Why?

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


Dear Company Partner Who Was Standing Outside The Office Door This Morning And Scolded Me For Not Having An Umbrella,

Maybe I would have had more time to look for one had I not been scared to risk my job by showing up a minute tardy because I knew you'd be there watching.


Monday, October 22, 2007


What a busy week!

Tomorrow Miss Underwood's new album comes out, and all signs point to another successful album. I've been reading all of her recent media coverage, including in the Tennessean and USA Today and Entertainment Weekly, and I'm not going to lie - I've been hoping an interviewer will ask her about an embarrassing fan moment and she'll talk about this. But so far, nothing.

Then Wednesday, JB and I are going to the So You Think You Can Dance show downtown. Exciting! Happy Early Christmas to me.

Then Thursday, I have a meeting to attend. I don't want to divulge too much about it yet. But I can't wait to read your guesses about what it could be. I'll start: Lamaze class? AA? Weight Watchers? Best guess wins a prize. And in this case, "best" does not mean "most accurate."

**ADDENDUM: Friday, Miss Sara Bareilles herself is going to be at the Wildhorse! Who's coming with me?

Anyway, I'm hoping that before I know it, the weekend will be here again! Yay!


It is finished:
The only easy thing about putting up curtains by yourself is taking a picture of them afterward.
And blackout curtains? Every bit as glorious as you think they'd be.

Sunday, October 21, 2007


I'm looking at pictures from Saturday night. We were sitting on the couch, tired from eating, tired from shopping and not ashamed to be in our pajamas at 7 on a Saturday night. I went and got my camera and in about three minutes, took maybe 15 pictures of us just cutting up.

These are my favorite pictures I've taken all year.

Will they ever know how much I need them?

Thursday, October 18, 2007


Dear Man That Works In My Favorite Wine Store That Said He Didn't Need To See My License Because He Remembered The Beautiful Picture,

So, you want to come drink this with me?


Dear Company That I Work For,

It's time to open a time code for Justin Timberlake. I mean, where else am I going to put the 45 minutes I spent yesterday trying to decide whether to pre-order his concert DVD or buy it in the store?



Here's another quick and funny high school story:

I was in ninth grade. I was in math class. I hate math. I should not be allowed to do it. Just like you have to get a license to drive, I think you should have to be licensed to do math, and then those of us without a license can leave all the math up to the professionals.

I think this hatred of math started in sixth grade. I did well on one test and my parents and teacher decided I was ready for the advanced math track. So from sixth grade on, I was one of a handful of kids taking the math level above my class. It was awful. For the next few years I was with all these kids that eventually became National Merit Finalists and received full ride scholarship offers to multiple colleges and universities. And then there was me. Stupid, happy she got at least got half credit for showing her work, me. I even had to go to a math tournament. It was the worst day. I never felt as dumb as I did the day I was surrounded by all those "mathletes."

But after junior high they separated the wheat from the chaff and took all the REALLY smart kids, the cream of the math crop, and put them in a math class together. The advanced of the advanced. The rest of us that were on the advanced track but maybe shouldn't have been were still taking the same math as those smarter kids, they just separated us so they wouldn't continue to make us feel stupid. We were mixed into math classes with the kids in the grade above us, while the super smart kids were in a think tank by themselves, also known as "honors math." So while I was taking the advanced math, I was not doing it honorably.

So anyway, we were "learning" about logic, theories and laws, like the Law of Syllogism and the Law of Transitivity. Nothing I had an interest in knowing about. The teacher was writing problems on the board and asking us to say which law or theory the problem used.

To my luck, he wrote an easy one that I knew, which meant I could say the answer and look like I was paying attention and keeping up with the class. I raised my hand. He called on me. "What law is it, Lindsay?"

I was so proud of myself that I almost shouted the answer. "LAW OF THE CONTRACEPTIVE!"

I didn't even realize I said the wrong thing at first. It wasn't until people started snickering and the teacher got a little red that I realized what I said. "I mean, contraPOSITIVE. Law of the contrapositive."

I didn't raise my hand for the rest of the week.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


It's so nice to be back in a routine. I'm done traveling for a while and the only thing standing between myself and normalcy is my ridiculously messy room. I think my suitcases from the fair blew up like bombs while I was at work. Because surely I wasn't the one who threw those clothes and shoes everywhere... right?

Speaking of the fair, I have one more story to tell you about. Our first day there I took a stroll through all the food vendors to see what looked yummy. Amid all the funnel cakes, cotton candy, ribbon fries and corn-dogs, I found a booth that made Deep Fried Oreo Sundaes. Doesn't that sound amazing? I made a mental note of where the booth was and decided to return after dinner.

So later I go back to the booth and ask the man what's in the dish: 4 Oreos, each wrapped in funnel cake dough then fried, rolled in powdered sugar then topped with ice cream, chocolate and whipped cream. I handed him $5 and said "No whipped cream, please."

A few minutes later, he handed me my sundae. I took a bite and it was delicious. I told him I'd be back before the fair was over. Turns out, the sundae was too rich and too sweet to finish so I only ate 2 of the Oreos and most of the ice cream.

So our last day rolls around and I had been saving room to tackle another sundae. I grabbed a handful of the T-shirts we'd been giving out from our booth and head back toward my friends with the Deep Fried Oreos.

I told him I'd come back to see him like I promised and I even brought him some goodies. They were so delighted about the shirts that he told me they'd put anything I wanted on my sundae. I opted for extra ice cream and chocolate. With a few nuts on top.

A few moments later, my friend comes to the counter and presents me with the biggest, most enormous dessert I have ever seen. They doubled if not tripled the recipe to make this:

And he wouldn't even let me pay for it. Unfortunately, once again I only managed to eat one or two of the Oreos. All the nuts on top ruined it. They went a little overboard and I felt bad for wasting it. But it's not like I asked for that big of a sundae. It was the size of my head! Normally they make them in little styrofoam bowls, but I guess they brought out the big guns for the girl with the free T-shirts.

Morals of the story: if you are brave enough to go to state fair, see if you can find the Deep Fried Oreo Sundae people. Their sign is green. Secondly, always carry a free T-shirt with you wherever you go. You'd be amazed what people will do for it.

Monday, October 15, 2007


So, I'm outside of Knoxville in Spike the Bigass Van round about 10, 10:30 on Thursday morning. I was three hours into my drive and I'd gotten pretty comfortable behind the wheel of Spike the Bigass Van. I'd found that there's a governor on the engine so I'm crusing at my maximum speed of 75 mph. I also found that the van cab has great acoustics for belting out some songs while listening to my iPod (earphones and all [save the lecture]).

And I was about to find the most important feature of them all: that you can see a lot from the higher vantage point.

I'm singing some Carrie while gazing around at the picturesque setting when my eyes land on the BMW SUV to my left. Georgia tags.

As I pass him, I do what all truckers do: turn to look at the driver. That's when I notice.

With the same nonchalantness it takes to scratch your arm or twirl your hair, this man is touching himself.


I mean, his pants are zipped but it's obvious that he really likes his BMW.

Finding this horrifying and yet hysterical, I try to speed up but the governor won't have it. You'd think this man would have noticed the looming bigass van beside him, but clearly his attention was elsewhere. Fearing my innocence, I slow down to escape him and switch lanes.

Five minutes later, I'm looking in my right side mirror when I see Mr. BMW cruising toward me in the lane to my right. At this point, I have a decision. Should I mind my own business, or do everyone else around us a favor and catch him? It would would embarrass him a lot more than me, that's for sure. And besides, stories like this is what blogs were made for.

You know EXACTLY what I chose to do.

So he coasts beside me. Luckily, I can't see anything but his face and his leg which is propped up on the left of the steering wheel. The combo is enough to tell me that he's not really paying attention to the road.

By now, I am laughing so hard that I'm cackling like a witch. Should I honk the horn? Does he know his windows aren't tinted? Has he realized he's on the outskirts of a major city and there are plenty of other cars on the road (There were like 6 or 7 vehicles besides his and my van on the road around us)?

After a minute of driving alongside me, Pervy McCreepy looks up and meets my eyes. Talk about deer in the headlights. That's right, sir; I'm not a crusty trucker. I'm a bored but employed mid-twenty something who is finds you highly offensive but surprisingly entertaining and YOU JUST GOT BUSTED.

As soon as our eyes lock I immediately turn to look straight ahead again and clap my hand over my mouth laughing.

A few seconds of howling laughter later, I look back over at the creep. He is beet red (I can tell that because - again - HIS WINDOWS WERE NOT TINTED). He gives a sheepish grin, WAVES (don't you think you've taken your hands off the road long enough?) and speeds off.

And that, my friends, is the first story I have from the state fair. You are welcome.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007



Another week, another work trip. Only this time there's no plane rides, fun cities nor possible shopping. Just me and the BIGASS van, driving 8 hours to meet our client at a weekend long work event.

Did I mention I was missing a wedding?
Did I mention I was missing the Kanye West concert?
And did I mention that while I might not be in the wedding or going backstage at the concert, I would still like to attend? Or have the option to?

Look at the pictures Joy Beth took when I went to get the van from work a little while ago. She was laughing so hard she was crying. We named it SPIKE. Look how big it is! And I have to drive this beast for 8 hours (each way) all by myself. You could fit my old dorm room in there with room to spare. It beeps when you put it in reverse. It's so big that it's even got a door from the cab to the cargo part. I should probably come up with a CB handle in case there is a CB radio in there somewhere. Any suggestions? How about "Prissy", as in I am way too prissy to be driving this enormous van?

Anyway, Spike and I will be back Monday, hopefully with some good stories. I imagine there is a lot of potential blog material to be found at a state fair.


Deep thoughts from Grey's Anatomy:

"It's shocking how many kinds of addiction exist. It would be too easy if it were just drugs and booze and cigarettes. I think the hardest part of kicking a habit is wanting to kick it. I mean, we get addicted for a reason, right? Often, too often, things that start out as just a normal part of your life at some point cross the line to obsessive, compulsive, out of control. It's the high we're chasing, the high that makes everything else fade away. The thing about addiction is, it never ends well because eventually whatever it was that was getting us high stops feeling good and starts to hurt. Still they say you don’t kick the habit until you hit rock bottom, but how do you know when you are there? Because no matter how bad things get, sometimes, letting it go hurts even worse."

(Not an addict. Just like the quote.)

Tuesday, October 09, 2007


Dear Moms,

Advice + Otter's = True love.

You are the best.


Sunday, October 07, 2007


I babysat for three really cute, fun girls on Friday. I was really glad I got to do it. But something really awkward happened at the end - it's actually happened to me before - and I need advice on how to better handle the situation.

Two years ago when I was living with my mom, my aunt called me about babysitting for some of her friends' kids. If you know Birmingham, then you know what I mean when I say these women were very typical Mountain Brook mothers - no offense. I love Mountain Brook. But these women were hiring a babysitter so that the three of them could go to lunch. Yes. No supper club, no company party, just lunch. And there were four kids between the three moms that I was watching that day. And none of the kids wanted to do the same thing. So it was a long two hours. Eventually they all came home and I got to leave. One mother handed me a check, the other mother showed me to the door while the third mother waved goodbye.

I got in my car and looked at the check. It was for one-fourth of what I was expecting to be paid. Just enough to cover that mom's child.

So I'm in my car, at the intersection between Cheap Street and Awkward Avenue. Do I just avoid the awkward and cut my loss, perhaps mention it to my aunt the next time I saw her? After all, it was more than I would have made sitting at home that afternoon. But on the other hand, those kids were brats! I don't care if it is awkward, I need to go knock on that door and get the rest of my money! Which mattered more: money or dignity?

I sat for 30 seconds and decided that if I phrased it right, I could embarrass the mothers and not myself. So I went back up and knocked on the door. The mom who lived there answered.

"Hey! Umm I only got a check from Mrs. ___, I thought it must be for all three but it isn't, so, ummm... I think there might have been miscommunication about who was going to pay?"

Welcome to Awkwardsville! Population: Lindsay.

She sputtered and giggled and handed me some money and I think I actually ran to my car.

So fast forward two years to Friday night. After playing with these sweet children, the parents came home. I handed the youngest one off to her dad, who stayed upstairs to put them all in bed. I went downstairs, chit-chatted with the mother for a minute and then she said "Well we've got your number, so we'll call you again!" and headed toward the front door.

I walked alongside her very slowly. "Yes, please do. Your kids are great. We had fun." We were at the front door. She opened it. She looked at me. I looked at her. Money or dignity? Dignity or money?

"So did you want to write me a check, or...?"

She covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh I thought my husband paid you! I'm so sorry!" (Side note: if I ever wanted to be a con artist, I think I know my trick.) She walked back to the kitchen, rifled through her purse then walked toward me with a wad of cash. I took it, stuffed it in my jeans pocket and thanked her once again. Then, just like before, I RAN to my car.

So what in the heck? Has this happened to anyone before? Am I just a magnet for awkward situations? And if that is the case, is there a better way to handle it? I know they aren't forgetting on purpose. It's an accident. But an awkward accident nonetheless. So should I make a joke? Should I pretend to pay THEM? Maybe I should ask to be paid up front. Or get a credit card number for incidentals.

Because until I have my own, there is only one child I'll babysit for free:

Thursday, October 04, 2007


(because there are no words)

Wednesday, October 03, 2007


Recently, a friend and I were discussing childhood pets. I know it might seem weird to write a post about family pets and title it Repulsed, but I promise it'll make sense at the end.

For the most part, we were a cat family. You could classify our cats into three CATegories (ha, get it?): the Buckwheats, the Pumpkin, and the rest.

The Buckwheats: when I was little (under 3 years), we had nine different cats in a row. All of them were named Buckwheat. I don't know why, but what I suspect happened is that my parents bought my sister named a cat, she named him Buckwheat, he ran away or died, they didn't feel like telling her so they bought another one and acted like it was the same one. I think we went through so many cats because they were most likely suicidal. We liked to dress up our cats, treat them like baby dolls, put them in cribs and then throw stones at them when they escaped and sought refuge under the car.

But we broke the Buckwheat trend when we got Pumpkin, who lived until this spring. That's 20 years, people. It was the ultimate kiss of irony: whereas the other cats never stayed around long enough, Pumpkin wouldn't leave. He used up all nine of his lives AND the balance from the cats that preceded him. And yes, Pumpkin is the same cat I wrote about last year that was on thyroid medicine. Pumpkin only did two good things in his 20 year lifespan. The first - he peed in the shower. One time I was walking by our guest bathroom. I saw something small and dark in the shower and I turned back around to find Pumpkin perfectly positioned over the drain, relieving himself. I was FLOORED. How did he know to go there instead of on the carpet? He stared back at me until he had finished his business and ran out of the bathroom. The only other contribution to my life that Pumpkin provided is the time he helped my cat out of a tree (I say "my cat" because Pumpkin was my sister's cat, while the fun, spry ones belonged to me). So one time, my cat Milo got stuck in a tree. Pumpkin sat at the base of the tree watching Milo all alone, howling, and finally Pumpkin climbed up the tree and showed Milo how to climb down. Honestly. He sat there watching, then slowly clawed his way up to Milo, then they both turned around and climbed down. Meanwhile my sister, mother and I sat watching from the kitchen table. It was like our own little Animal Planet show.

Milo brings us to the third CATegory, the rest of the cats. The ones that behaved normally because we were old enough to return the favor. When I was in sixth grade, we got Milo. He was a gift from my dad because I'd had ear surgery. Milo was part siamese, which means he had the hyper attitude and awkward body of a siamese cat (thin long body, pointy head and HUGE ears) with the orange coat of a tabby. So, he looked pretty funny. But he was awesome. Unfortunately, his untimely demise my sophomore year (translation: my sister ran over him in our driveway) made way for Claude, who was the greatest cat ever. EVER. He would do cute stuff like curl up and pose in the bathroom sink or in my suitcase while I was packing. I think he was of french descent because he was so jaunty and smart. Or maybe I think he was of french descent because I named him Claude.

We also had a two different golden retrievers. Jessie was around before I was, but then eventually we gave her away. We later ended up getting one of her puppies, which we named Barkley after the flower girl in my parents' wedding. She liked to stick her head in the sprinklers and thus, was a walking, barking ear infection.

We went through a few goldfish too, all of whose collective life-span probably totals under one week. I remember the one that I won at our Halloween Fall Festival lived in my room. Once or twice I took it out of the bowl and held it in my hand. I wanted to pet it! My mom caught me and I was not allowed to do that anymore.

Unfortunately, we dipped our toes in the rodent waters. Didn't everyone? Chestnut and Copper were our two gerbils that were, to sum it up, thorns in our sides. We thought they were cool for about a week. Then the whole change the cage thing came into play and it was all downhill from there. We eventually had to put those damn gerbils in an aquarium because they chewed through at least three of their plastic cages with the add-on wheels and burrows and stuff. It was like a game we'd play when we'd come home from church: would we spend the afternoon playing Barbies or finding (and cleaning up after) the gerbils? They pooped like it was their job. We eventually gave them away to my fifth grade teacher. Then her two little boys got to deal with them.

But that's not what I'm here to write about. Unfortunately, gerbils with super-pooping powers, suicidal cats, and barking ear infections were not enough.

Without my asking for one, my parents decided to get me a hermit crab. Talk about a thorn in my side.

They brought the hermit crab back from a vacation to the beach. It came in a turquoise cage with rocks and a sponge. Even more embarrassing than the fact that I now had a pet hermit crab is what I decided to name him: Meep. I mean, was he a Muppet?

So Meep lived in my room, on my dresser, and boy, did he smell. There was some hardcore bacteria growing in that cage. I would (accidentally) let week(s) go by without watering his sponge because I hated opening the cage up. It smelled SO BAD. My mother would make me clean it and wash the rocks but even so, it reeked. Therefore, I never wanted to touch him, I didn't want to play with him or even race him like they do at beach restaurants. He was just there, in my room, wasting away. I hesitate to even say he was a pet. I took better care of my crayons than I did this hermit crab.

Which brings me to my favorite story about Meep: when he died. I'm not sure when he actually passed on, but one day I noticed he wasn't slinking around his cage anymore. I remember I got a Q tip and poked him. He just rolled over. He was all shriveled up. I had killed him. Death by dehydration. And from the looks/smell of it, he'd been gone for a while.

Relieved, I picked him up by the end of his shell, carefully carried his smelly corpse downstairs and out onto our patio. Then I did the only thing I knew to do with a dead hermit crab: I cocked my arm back and with all my might and gust, threw him as far as I could into our backyard.

I will never forget watching his little hermit legs flying off in the wind, like the seeds of a dandelion being blown by the breeze. I wasn't even sad to see him go. I was just hoping that the cats wouldn't find him and drag him back up to the porch. And that my parents would never ever buy me another pet crustacean.

Tuesday, October 02, 2007


It doesn't take much to make me a happy girl. For instance, you would be shocked at the incredible pleasure I have received from these lovely pom pom ankle socks from Old Navy. Hey, if it makes exercising fun, I'm all over it. Next time I am near an Old Navy, I am so going back for more colors. Actually, I just checked their Web site and the socks are buy 2 or more and they're $2.50 each! So, I guess I know where I'm going after work today.

It also makes me happy to watch Tommy Tuberville defend Auburn to the point of earning a penalty. How great was it watching him get steamed and blowing up at those officials? He's cool, calm and collected, except when it really matters. I love his passion. What a great coach.

And because it's my blog, and because he's so hot, this also makes me very very VERY happy:

If you're not a JT fan, get over it (coughFergusoncough). Besides, the concert went off demand yesterday so you don't have to hear about him anymore until the DVD comes out!

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