Ten Things I Love About You: End-of-February Edition

Here is the latest edition in honor of this blessed week, the end of February. There are currently three other editions: October, Wednesday, and Paris.

1. I lost my antique ring that I bought in London. It is one of my more prized possessions. It has a vintage clock design and I love it. Well, I lost it. And you're wondering why this makes the list? Because what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, right? I'm betting on coming stronger out of this one.

2. The weather. Could the winter sunshine have been more ideal? No. I was always smiling when I was outside this week. That's unusual for me in wintertime. Usually I'm grimacing, looking up at the sky, and cursing it.

3. Follow-up to #2. I ate lunch outside, on a warm wooden bench on Tuesday. The wood was warmed by the sunshine. And I took off my coat while I sat on the bench. And then I took off my sweater. And then...don't worry, I left on all other attire.

4. I took a test, and guessed the answer on approximately 28 out of 50 questions. Anyone who is good at math says I should've have failed, but I didn't. I'm a really good at eenie-meenie-miney-mo. I'll teach you sometime.

5. I was proposed to by my prospective husband's father. In an interview for a fake job. He was conducting the interview. The father, not the son. The son published three books in high school. I don't think the marriage will succeed. People who publish three books in high school can't be normal. I'm looking for normal.

6. I got four pairs of shoes in the mail. Yellow ones, red ones, purple ones, and black ones. My little brother says all but the black ones are ugly. But, I like them. Go check out the sale at Target.

7. I have eaten whole wheat pancakes on 7 straight mornings. Yes, that's one full week. Hot pancakes in the morning for Thursday to Thursday. I have never had so much breakfast and been so happy about it in my life. (My family is going through a pancake obsession phase. So far, my stomach likes the consequences. And my brain does too, cause doesn't breakfast make you smarter? Everything makes sense now, like being good at eenie-meenie-miney-mo, it's the pancakes.)

8. Scrabble club is on Saturday. (Comment for more information.) It's going to be one heck of a club meeting. Sweaters and cardigans are the preferred attire.

9. I got a parking ticket. I can't tell you how much I love those little neon green envelopes that they tuck under my windshield wiper. I think of them as little love notes from our local police force. They really love me.

10. I'm nearly bald and now know my head shape, which is big because I've always wondered what kind of head shape I have. This is all thanks to my favorite haircutter at Haven Salon. There is no sarcasm in that comment; she really is my favorite. And being nearly bald means never doing my hair, which means sleeping-in all the time, which means later nights writing on the blog. Good things for both of us.

I'm Honored.

My blog was featured at the end of Word of Mouth's most recent show! I'm flattered. Truly. It was kind of strange to hear them mention my blog-- it made this whole writing to the universe thing more real. Real, and exciting.

The podcast is long, wonderful, but long. The bit about this little blog is at the end, so feel free to skip through to hear the short review of my blog.

Here kitty, kitty...

My friend has a cat. And I don't like her cat, but it's not because her cat has two different color eyes, it's just that I don't like cats. At all. Cats slink. They slink around your ankles and through your bushes. They can't be trusted. You never know. They fool you into letting them curl up on your lap, but deep down, behind their creepy eyes, they're plotting something. I know it. I can feel it. And cats know I know. They save penetrating stares just for me. I'm suspicious of them; they're suspicious of me. They have a right to be suspicious, I know they're up to something, and I'm not afraid to expose them.

"Hey, your cat's up to something."

"Oh, stop Laura. She's nice. Come 'ere kitty." And that manipulative little cat, came slowly towards my friend, arching her back and sliding her tail around my friend's ankles. The cat looked with hostility right at me while she faked an affectionate purr.

"Did you see that?! See! I told you."

"See what?"

"Your cat totally just looked at me. And she's guilty. I saw it in her eyes."

But my friend has been brain-washed. By the cat. She thought I was crazy, and she still does.

Well friend... I leave you with this excerpt from a piece by essayist Annie Dilliard. I read it in a class and all of my speculations have been confirmed. Your cat is totally up to something. Watch out.

"I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken. He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses."

You see, I'm not crazy. I have reason to hate your cat.

I'm Not Usually A Superstitious Person.

But, I might change.

We stayed in a condo on the 13th floor over Friday the 13th. And my Dad got stuck in the elevator.

Coincidence? I say not.

Cranberry-Apple and Sprite. Mixed.

I never want to be a high maintenance consumer. Because there was a time when I worked in a retail clothing store and I waited on customers:

“That’s going to be $152.25,” I would start folding the customer’s purchased clothing, putting it into bags. The customer was oblivious to me, completely engrossed in a conversation with their mother-in-law about pot roast. I would have to try and politely interrupt, “Sorry, are you paying with cash or card?” And the customer would keep insisting that cream-onion-soup dumped on top of the roast before cooking is much tastier than cooking the roast with carrots and potatoes, all the while digging in their purse. They didn’t even know if they were paying with cash or card. Heck, they didn’t even know they were paying. And when they’ve finally hung up with Mrs. Mother-In-Law, it would suddenly occur to them that they actually didn’t want the shirt that was rung up first and put into the bottom of the bag.

It happened all the time—and that’s why I don’t want to be a demanding consumer. Because let’s face it, there are already too many demanding costumers out there. I dread being one of them.

But as much as I don’t like being needy and as much as I hate asking for special permissions, I can’t help it: when I walk down the tunnel from the gate to the plane, my saliva turns into apple-cranberry juice and Sprite. Mixed. When I walk onto a flight, it is suddenly all I want. Mid-flight, the stewardess starts pushing the cart, a cart that always seems to miraculously fit between the two aisle seats, and I get a little excited. I’m going to get my fix. I get a little nervous; how am I going to ask for it? I mean, when you’re ten, you can pull off asking for a mixed drink from the plane stewardess and they call it cute. But post-age-sixteen, you ask for something out-of-the-ordinary, and you’re demanding. The stewardess parks her cart immediately to my left, “Can I get you something to drink?” I hesitate, but only for a second. I really have to have cranberry apple with Sprite.

“Actually, I’m sorry. I hate to bother you with a strange request. But, I’m really hoping that I can get cranberry-apple juice mixed with a little Sprite.” It doesn’t faze her. She starts to pour the cranberry juice first. I keep explaining, “Really, I’m sorry. You see, it’s just what I always get when I’m on a flight. I’ve just gotten myself into this strange habit and I just always want cran-apple and Sprite, mixed, when I’m on an airplane. And really, I don’t mean to ask for special consideration.” But the truth is, I do mean to ask for special consideration, because I want my mix that badly. “Anyway, thanks. And I’m sorry I’m making you work for me. Really, really, I’m sorry.” She’s pouring the Sprite now.

“No worries. We get requests for cran-apple and Sprite mixed all the time.” And with that, she pushes her cart forward and parks it in front of the next row. I knew it. Shoot. I just want to pull my weak airport blanket over my head and disappear into the flotation device that they call a seat. She might as well have said, “Face it. Embrace the embarrassment. Stop thinking you’re something special. Quit apologizing. You’re just one of the thousands of ridiculously demanding customers.” We get requests like this all the time? She couldn’t have said anything to make me feel worse. I’ve never wanted to be a high maintenance customer. And when it comes down to it, I’m just one of the thousands that might as well be talking with my mother-in-law about pot roast.

And I don’t even have a mother-in-law.

This is me. And I did my state report on Rhode Island.

This is me. I'm stressed.


Headed to Boston this week. Who is stupid enough to leave for a week in the middle of a semester of school? Yep, you guessed it. Me. And Boston is worth it.

I've never been to Boston. We're also stopping in Rhode Island for a few days. I've never been to Rhode Island either. But, I did do my third grade state report on Rhode Island. And that is how I earned myself a plane ticket for this trip.

Witness a conversation at dinner one month ago:

Dad: Hey, I have a convention in Boston next month and flights are pretty inexpensive if I fly into Rhode Island. So, Eric, Ryan? [These are the youngest little brother's names. They perk up, they know what is coming] Would you like to come?

Me: [Clearing of throat] I just thought you should know that I did my third grade state report on Rhode Island.

Dad: Okay?

Me: You'll need a tour guide.

Dad: And?

Me: I'm graciously offering my services.

And that's how it happened. That's how I earned myself a spot on this grand adventure. Guess I better go re-read my state report.


This is Newport. It's charming.

This is Boston. It's cold.

You Say You Want to Succeed?

I say you need a free flowing, fine tip, black pen.

It makes the best study flashcards.

And that's all you need to win.

In Memoriam: August 2007- January 2009

A red cell phone slipped away peacefully on the evening of January 31st. The phone had lived a short, useful life plagued by bouts of bad battery-itis and has now moved on to the land lovingly called "trash can." Upon purchase on August 28, 2007, the red phone donated all of its profits to the Product: RED campaign. From the start, the phone had a giving heart. It gave and gave-- making phone calls, storing phone numbers, taking pictures, and ringing an annoying alarm at exactly 7:30 am every day. The red phone loved its brief visit to the United Kingdom. There the phone was relieved of most of its communication duties, serving only as an alarm clock in the mornings. Upon returning, the phone never again experienced full health.

The red phone is survived by its frustrated owner.