A couple of weeks ago, I asked if the colorful and squishy confection, Peeps, were Vegan. (Rachel informed that they were not.) My interest was not because they are delicious, because they really aren't, but because they are cute. And I guess I like to eat cute things? No, that's wrong... I like to eat colorful things. (That's better!) Well, after seeing this, I retract all previously mentioned affection for Peeps. Because, obviously, I don't want to be a creep.
Notice also, her ridiculous collection of 900, yes 900, plush soccer balls. From the footage, I'd guess that there are about 890 of the exact same soccer ball, and ten unique ones. And that's just funny.
Also, today is my Friday, because tomorrow is Good Friday, and that means the office is closed. I LOVE working for Catholics!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Some things
Monday morning, Monday evening.
Daffodils are one of my favorite flowers. In the house where I grew up, there were these huge hedges lining the sidewalk, and underneath them hundreds of daffodils would bloom. At least it seemed like hundreds to my little-kid memory. I guess I've always been fascinated by them. I remember picking them: the frustration I would feel when I would grab them too close to the tops, and realize as soon as it was plucked that I had ruined it; and the satisfaction of that "pop" sound they'd make when I grabbed them near the bottom; and that sticky slime that oozed out of them that I thought was so gross. It's one of those few childhood sensory-things that are seared in my memory: like the smell of the house when it rained, the sound of the attic fan, the feel of the olive-green velvet sofa, and peeling the layers of paint from my bedroom walls. Good things to remember.
The city condemned and leveled this house in a week flat. It's right across the street from us, or was. It was called "The Chateau" (seriously). It's just a pile of bricks now. It's really pretty sad.
And to end on a funny note, the funniest thing that happened today-- Several very funny things happened today, most of them surrounded the tracing, cutting-out and painting of little cardboard kids in hurricane-force wind gusts. It probably looked a lot like playing Twister with a paint-can from the street. BUT EVEN FUNNIER: Chris and I are hanging out, talking about bagpipes, like ya' do, and she's trying to explain how a certain movie-theme could be played on the bagpipes, and to drive home the point she both HUMMED (think Phoebe, Friends fans) and AIR-PLAYED the bagpipes. And as I crumple with fits of laughter, she just says "Well, it's not everyday that you air-bagpipe."
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
check itz
It's hard to say exactly why, but I find this video captivating. I've watched it about ten times now. See! Jellyfishes.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
: on customer service
So I recently got a new Sprint phone (and plan) thanks to a very generous gentleman from my church.
I have been with Sprint for six years now, and had every intention of giving them da' boot last month when my contract expired. But seeing how events transpired, I decided to stick with them for awhile longer. This is fine and all, but let me share with you how this customer-service scenario played out today.
Background: You know that little "envelope" icon that shows up at the top of your screen when you have a message, well mine has been up there all the time, even though I don't have any messages. This is not a HUGE deal in the scheme of things, compared with say, you know world poverty, etc. So yes, definitely a developed-world problem. But it really irritates me, okay? I don't have any new messages! I have checked my voicemail, my text messages, my SMS messages, my picture mail, and even my internet from my phone. THERE ARE NO MESSAGES. I have "cleared the envelope," "powered-off, then powered-on my phone," I have "removed the battery and rebooted." And still, that little envelope sits at the top of my screen, taunting me.
Jarrod also sits in front of me, taunting me, with such irrelevant advice about checking my messages that it makes me want to hit him in the face. I might actually, if he didn't currently have a vicious tooth-ache that more-or-less does the job for me. Convenient? Maybe.
So I call up Sprint customer service (it only takes four times to get through) and talk to this woman for awhile only to get (HERE IT COMES), "Well. I don't know how to fix that."
WHAT?! WRONG. FIX IT.
This would be where I think to myself that favorite word: unacceptable.
So ten minutes later, the advice that I hang up with is "You know, I just usually ignore that little envelope on my phone anyway."
Stoopid. If I wanted to ignore it, maybe I wouldn't have called.
This rant brought to you by, coincidentally, my Samsung "Rant." Ha!
Unrelated: Are Peeps vegan? They just look so colorful and delicious.
I have been with Sprint for six years now, and had every intention of giving them da' boot last month when my contract expired. But seeing how events transpired, I decided to stick with them for awhile longer. This is fine and all, but let me share with you how this customer-service scenario played out today.
Background: You know that little "envelope" icon that shows up at the top of your screen when you have a message, well mine has been up there all the time, even though I don't have any messages. This is not a HUGE deal in the scheme of things, compared with say, you know world poverty, etc. So yes, definitely a developed-world problem. But it really irritates me, okay? I don't have any new messages! I have checked my voicemail, my text messages, my SMS messages, my picture mail, and even my internet from my phone. THERE ARE NO MESSAGES. I have "cleared the envelope," "powered-off, then powered-on my phone," I have "removed the battery and rebooted." And still, that little envelope sits at the top of my screen, taunting me.
Jarrod also sits in front of me, taunting me, with such irrelevant advice about checking my messages that it makes me want to hit him in the face. I might actually, if he didn't currently have a vicious tooth-ache that more-or-less does the job for me. Convenient? Maybe.
So I call up Sprint customer service (it only takes four times to get through) and talk to this woman for awhile only to get (HERE IT COMES), "Well. I don't know how to fix that."
WHAT?! WRONG. FIX IT.
This would be where I think to myself that favorite word: unacceptable.
So ten minutes later, the advice that I hang up with is "You know, I just usually ignore that little envelope on my phone anyway."
Stoopid. If I wanted to ignore it, maybe I wouldn't have called.
This rant brought to you by, coincidentally, my Samsung "Rant." Ha!
Unrelated: Are Peeps vegan? They just look so colorful and delicious.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
(Not-So) Typical
Me: "_social service organization__, This is Rachel."
Caller: "Yes! I ordered a wig OVER a MONTH ago and it's still NOT HERE. (here is where I start biting down on my lip hard enough to draw blood so as not to burst into laughter into the receiver) Now, I placed the order with a gentleman that said that it would be here, and that you were in Motown or Uptown, or wherever-y'all are. Now with the wig, he put in under two names, I think, either T-E-R-R-Y or J-E-R-R-E-L, but I need to..."
Me: "Er. Ma'am. I think you have the wrong number. This is _social service organization___. And as far as I'm aware, we've never sold wigs."
Commence fits of laughter in the office.
Caller: "Yes! I ordered a wig OVER a MONTH ago and it's still NOT HERE. (here is where I start biting down on my lip hard enough to draw blood so as not to burst into laughter into the receiver) Now, I placed the order with a gentleman that said that it would be here, and that you were in Motown or Uptown, or wherever-y'all are. Now with the wig, he put in under two names, I think, either T-E-R-R-Y or J-E-R-R-E-L, but I need to..."
Me: "Er. Ma'am. I think you have the wrong number. This is _social service organization___. And as far as I'm aware, we've never sold wigs."
Commence fits of laughter in the office.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
: on half-birthdays
Today is my half-birthday. Today I am 23 and one-half.
Do y'all remember half-birthday-parties? They were an invention of elementary-school teachers for all of us poor suckers who had summer birthdays. And how grateful we were. Do you know how upset this little girl would have been if I hadn't had my birthday marked each year? The trauma may have made me a different person. So then, it's good that those teachers were such sharp-thinkers.
It's February 25, and the temperature is currently 73 degrees. And thank goodness. I hate the cold. I really really hate the cold. Especially that awful whistle of Arctic wind that comes through my bedroom window to blast on my face. Like one of those high-pressured compressed-air keyboard cleaners. On my face. So yeah, that's awesome. Even better? WARMTH!
Lucinda, our house cat, peed right in front of me this morning, while I was making toast. About the rudest thing that's ever happened to me. Only ruder was that couple on the airplane from Seattle to Denver (Seriously. How do they sleep at night?) I think I was about as upset with her as I would have been about not getting my birthday recognized in elementary school.
Oh, and I bet you're all wondering about how the murderous cuisine turned out last night. Well: to my IMMENSE relief, they were already cooked when I bought them. That, though, didn't save me from the horror of having to dismember them. Like I said, I've had crawfish before. But in the South. I think there must be something to that when-in-Rome philosophy. (I mean, I was persuaded to eat something that resembled pink mayonnaise in a foreign country once. And that's about as bad as it gets, right?) So, the last time I had crawfish it was sitting at a newspaper-covered picnic table surrounded by locals, shell and guts everywhere; there was something just right about that whole scene. It wasn't hard to snap critters in half and suck their brains out. So then, it was another thing entirely to be standing in my kitchen in the Midwest, still in my office-attire, manhandling crustaceans; something very different indeed. The whole ordeal was pretty bad. I won't go into too many of the gruesome details, but I will tell you that at one point I started screaming "Oh no! Oh NO! That's brains! Yellow-brains! Brain-smears! On my hand!" And I was so on-edge about the whole thing that when Dane knocked I thought the bits had reassembled and come back to life to have their vengeance. It was bad, babies, pretty bad.
The food, however, turned out AWESOME. Crawfish and Shrimp Etouffee? SUCCESS! Crabcakes? DUH! I think I may just go to Jazz in the future, but I think I met the challenge head-on.
The finished product:
Do y'all remember half-birthday-parties? They were an invention of elementary-school teachers for all of us poor suckers who had summer birthdays. And how grateful we were. Do you know how upset this little girl would have been if I hadn't had my birthday marked each year? The trauma may have made me a different person. So then, it's good that those teachers were such sharp-thinkers.
It's February 25, and the temperature is currently 73 degrees. And thank goodness. I hate the cold. I really really hate the cold. Especially that awful whistle of Arctic wind that comes through my bedroom window to blast on my face. Like one of those high-pressured compressed-air keyboard cleaners. On my face. So yeah, that's awesome. Even better? WARMTH!
Lucinda, our house cat, peed right in front of me this morning, while I was making toast. About the rudest thing that's ever happened to me. Only ruder was that couple on the airplane from Seattle to Denver (Seriously. How do they sleep at night?) I think I was about as upset with her as I would have been about not getting my birthday recognized in elementary school.
Oh, and I bet you're all wondering about how the murderous cuisine turned out last night. Well: to my IMMENSE relief, they were already cooked when I bought them. That, though, didn't save me from the horror of having to dismember them. Like I said, I've had crawfish before. But in the South. I think there must be something to that when-in-Rome philosophy. (I mean, I was persuaded to eat something that resembled pink mayonnaise in a foreign country once. And that's about as bad as it gets, right?) So, the last time I had crawfish it was sitting at a newspaper-covered picnic table surrounded by locals, shell and guts everywhere; there was something just right about that whole scene. It wasn't hard to snap critters in half and suck their brains out. So then, it was another thing entirely to be standing in my kitchen in the Midwest, still in my office-attire, manhandling crustaceans; something very different indeed. The whole ordeal was pretty bad. I won't go into too many of the gruesome details, but I will tell you that at one point I started screaming "Oh no! Oh NO! That's brains! Yellow-brains! Brain-smears! On my hand!" And I was so on-edge about the whole thing that when Dane knocked I thought the bits had reassembled and come back to life to have their vengeance. It was bad, babies, pretty bad.
The food, however, turned out AWESOME. Crawfish and Shrimp Etouffee? SUCCESS! Crabcakes? DUH! I think I may just go to Jazz in the future, but I think I met the challenge head-on.
The finished product:
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
